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Multiple Settings Road to Safina: a Post-Apocalyptic road trip through North America.

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The mention of the Confederates, as well as 'hicks and inbreds' made Morgan cock an eyebrow as she glanced to Agent Song. They were intending to pass through Confederate territory during the trip? Wonderful. She had already had her fill of the Confederacy and all that lived in it months ago, and really didn't wish to have to go through that same crap again.

At least she was getting her gear back when they leave on this merry little escort op. She missed her rifle. And her guitar. She also missed her car, but that wasn't coming back. Rednecks claimed that, and they had died with it too.


- + - Two Months Ago - + -

Religion wasn't Morgan's thing. Never has been, after learning about what all had happened to the world and how little faith had done to save it. She'd even argue that in some cases, blind faith pushed humanity closer to the brink. Some divine being looking down on humanity, attempting to guide it through teachings and strict rules written down in books by their 'prophets'. That was, of course, just the major religions of the old world. The minor ones had varieties of gods, and were often less strict.

There were some out west that believed in a few of the old religions. Christianity being the primary one. She had encountered primarily Catholics and Mormons out west, the latter being the weirder of the two and apparently centralized almost exclusively in the region of what used to be Utah.

Down here in the old state of Alabama, religion was a major part of a Confederate citizen's life. Specifically Christianity. You lived by the word of the one and only God, written down in tomes referred to as the Bible. A man referred to as Jesus of Nazareth was one's savior, having sacrificed himself to atone for all of humanity's sins.

Now, normally Morgan didn't give a shit about what you believe in as long as you didn't shove it onto her. Believe what you want, but leave me alone. It had allowed her to cross through religious territories smoothly, with a bit of gun flashing here and there to accompany her saying 'Fuck off.' to hecklers.

Here, it was a different story.

She couldn't count the number of times she had been called a harlot. Or a snake. Or a devil worshiper. Or even a demon. She shrugged it off. She had been called a variety of things over the years, by people far better and far worse than these people.

But most of the hecklers stopped after a while. Some didn't. Those particular few were of a variety of individuals that lived deep in the woods and mountains of Alabama (and likely elsewhere in the Southeast and up through Appalachia.) Rednecks. Hillbillies. The ones that clung to their guns and hate just as hard as they clung to their religion. Often ending up dead in a family feud with another clan of rednecks, or at the hands of some creature in the woods they shouldn't have fucked with.

Well, they decided to fuck with Morgan. The method? Stealing her car while she was out hunting for a meal. The car she had been driving since California. The car she had been living out of for the past few months, as she travelled America's old highways and dirt roads. An old, beat-up Ford Mustang Mach 1 that Faith had fixed up for her.

She loved that car, really. Enough to kill over it.

These motherfuckers took it and wrecked it. Plowed it into the bank of a river after trying to jump said river with it. Most of her stuff survived the jump, but the car and its engine didn't. It now sat half submerged in the murky brown water, front end crushed and caved inward.





She wanted payback. And for two weeks, she had tracked them. Five people. Inbred hicks, living in the backwoods of what was formerly Monroe County, Alabama. The mother and father: Susie and John. The three sons: Richard, Joe, and Mason. The Travers family.

And over the past three nights, she had killed all but two of the sons. The first to drop was Susie, whom had stepped outside to call out to John that supper was ready. As she stepped across the poarch, moving towards the railing so that she could see her husband over by the woodshed, her foot pressed down on a loose board in the poarch's flooring.

Beneath that board, a pressure switch attached to a makeshift trap loaded with a cluster of four shotgun shells. Double-ought buckshot would blast straight upwards, blowing most of her leg off before ripping through her chest and head. She was dead on the spot.

The next night, Mason went next. Searching the woods for whatever killed his mother, he'd fall into a pit that had been dug into the forest floor. Morgan spent a lot of time on that pit, and filled it with one of her favorite animals.

Snakes.

She watched the man panic and flail about, trying to climb from the twelve foot deep pit. Timber rattlers latching onto him and pumping him full of as much venom as they could. He was dead within minutes, as Morgan looked on with a wide grin. Two down. Three to go.

The third night, John was put down. His was a bit tricky. He noticed Morgan coming, and had fired off a shot. Shitty aim, of course. Asshole couldn't afford an automatic either. Some reproduction of an old Springfield trap-door rifle chambered in a big, heavy hitting round. These idiots and their wierd fascination with the past.

She dropped a tree on his ass. Didn't even see it coming, either. One second, he's looking down the barrel of his rifle. A second later, he was splattered across the ground as a pine tree's trunk crashed down onto him from directly above. The rifle seemed interesting, so Morgan ended up keeping it. A handful of bullets from John's pocket came with it, so she didn't have to scrounge too much.

And now, it was the fourth night. The two remaining brothers, Richard and Joe were still alive, hiding in the shack the family lived in. Fear ever growing in their hateful little hearts. And she was going to cash in on it.

As darkness settled in, rendering the forest pitch black around the wooden shack, Morgan called out.

"Oh, Richard! Little Joe! Come out, come out, wherever you are!~"

There was silence for a few moments afterwards, before she heard Richard yell back. "Please!! Leave us be, demon!! What have we done to deserve this!?" he shouted, his voice muffled slightly by the house.

"You've sinned, of course. You've been living in sin your whole lives. You and your brother! Your whole family!"

She knew they were trying to figure out what they had done. The silence that followed her words only confirmed it. She grinned.

"God's not going to save you, boys. You're mine now, and I am to collect those miserable excuses for souls."

"S-Stay back, demon! I rebuke thee!!"

She chuckled, before picking up a line next to her foot. She gave it a gentle tug, and near the shack, a stack of aluminium cans she had set up fell over. Making a loud clanking noise.

A shotgun blast sounded off from inside the house, ripping through the wall of the shack in the direction of the cans. They were certainly scared now.

She lifted the Springfield rifle to her shoulder, taking aim at the front door of the shack. She knew what they were intending to do. She just had to wait. Wait, and watch.

And soon, the shack door eased open. She could hear the creak of the hinges from where she sat in the dark. She could now see inside, but still didn't see anyone. She did, however, see the end of a shotgun barrel, poking up into the air from behind the doorframe. It seemed they were trying to will themselves to investigate the cans.

And then, Richard swung out of the doorway onto the poarch. Shotgun shouldered, pointing towards the left side of the house. Ready to fire at a moment's notice. Joe followed behind, clutching a woodcutting axe.

Richard wouldn't be standing for very much longer, however.

There was a crack, and a .45-70 round darted through the night air. It struck Richard in the temple, blowing half his head off as he slammed into the wall next to him. Joe panicked, rushing back inside and slamming the door shut.

Morgan chuckled, flicking the trap-door open on the rifle. The empty shell casing darted out, and she quickly replaced it with a new round before shutting the door and cocking the hammer back. Rifle was ready for a other shot.

"Just you now, Little Joe! You and me!"

He didn't respond. He didn't need to. He was probably shitting himself with fear in a corner of the house.

"Why don't you come on out? Face ol' Lucifer with some dignity, eh? Surely a loyal soldier of God's got the balls to do that?"

No response.

She smirked. "Ah, well... guess I'll come to you!~"

She then heard movement, as she slowly walked towards the shack. He was moving furniture inside, trying to find something heavy to block the door. Cute. He thinks that's going to help.

As she approached, she carefully stepped around to the right side of the house. From her belt, she pulled a bottle with a rag jutting out of it. A match was also drawn, which she struck across the side of her leather boot. Once lit, she lit the rag poking out of the bottle. Molotov time.

A simple toss sent the bottle through the right window of the house, shattering the glass window as well as the bottle as it hit the floor inside. Fire errupted practicly everywhere, and she could hear Joe panicking inside. She grinned again. He'd be moving that furniture out of the way of the door.

And so he did. It took him a minute, with the fire building behind him. Engulfing the back half of the house before he was able to step outside the front door.

The moment he stepped out, a .45-70 round punched through his knee. He collapsed, yelling out in agony as he fell onto the poarch. Morgan chuckled, reloading the weapon as she stepped around.

"You dumb motherfucker." she muttered, slipping a fresh round into the weapon. She closed the door and cocked the hammer back. Then, another shot. Right into the other knee. The man cried out again, now rendered unable to walk. And a few moments later, Joe would finally pass out from the pain.

An hour later, he'd awaken to find himself strapped across a log. Chains bound his hands and legs, rendering him completely unable to move. And nearby... was a woman wearing what appeared to be a goat's head. She glanced back, chuckling as she noticed he was awake.

"Ah, the fat-ass returns to the land of the conscious. How's your knees, Little Joe?" she asked, looking back down in front of her. She was messing with some sort of object before her, just out of view.

It was then that she heard Joe reciting some sort of prayer to himself. She slowly looked back, taking a moment to watch him as he whispered the words.

"...God's not going to save you, Joe."

Joe slowly stopped his recital of the prayer, eyes fluttering open and looking in her direction.

"He checked out a long time ago, I'm afraid." she then added, before turning about with the object she had been messing with. His eyes then met the object, and a look of horror appeared on his face.

It was a chainsaw.

"But, feel free to pray! Your decision, after all." she said, checking its settings before pulling on the string in an attempt to start it. "Maybe you'll make better decisions in whatever life comes after, hmm? Like not touching someone else's car?"

It soon cranked, smoke bursting from the tool's exhaust. Morgan revved the tool a few times, holding it up and watching the rough chains spin along the track.

"Groovy."
 
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"Sounds like duty calls" Dustin enthusiastically made his way to the truck, climbing his way to the back...and then on the roof. Once the Half-goliath deemed that the truck was propely stocked up with cannon fodder, he patted on the surface he rested atop of twice, signaling the drivers to get going, the latter having an ample desire to shoot the disrespectful asshole where he sat. Once the vehicle started moving, the man could feel the sudden push and tremble to almost make him fall from his unexpected seat, but he was able to stabilize himself by rotating his armo in a wide motion, cackling to himself as his stability was back.

The journey itself was relatively calm, with Dustin taking out his trusty 'water' canister, giving it modest little sips to sate his concerningly low attention span. He savored the moonshine inside his mouth, thankful that his goliath genes allowed him to enjoy such beverage without getting tipsy after just a few sips. Then, there was a gag reaction, a sudden stiffness in his body as a putrid odor invaded his nostrils. He spat the liquid inside of his mouth, its aroma tarnished by the stench of rotting fish. "Holy fuck that reeks! that's the fourth worst smell I've ever felt" The smell snapped him out of his trance, now giving the words from the CO the proper attention. "Yup, always a toss of the coin with those fish guys, either they leave you alone or they bring their buddies to raze your entire land"

Arriving at the base's gateway, the trucks stopped, the Half-Goliath jumping off from this tetanus-covered throne. It seemed like a sudden check was in order, the MCs wasting no time approaching the caravan members. Dustin smile, placing a single finger hooked on the folds of his shawl right under his chin, he pulled forcefully, removing the piece of cloth entirely. His chiseled body and intricate tattoo patterns now in full display. "Go ahead~" Unlike with the others, Dustin's search was laughably quick, you would have to be blind to not notice the large sheathed blade behind his back of the small shotgun hanging from his hip, his pants had little to offer and he too also happened to possess no extra skin pockets. Once the MPs finished their business, the tattooed man simply rolled up the shawl and packed it into his bag, he probably wasn't going to need it for the time being, anyways. He followed the group, unbothered by the militaristic change in scenery, one that he was more than used to, at the end of the day.

Little after, the true purpose of their mission had been made clear: To deliver some shit to the UCM. Now, that was admitedly a considerably longer journey than the man had previously expected, he couldn't be away for THAT long! He had many commitments to maintain such as...

hmm...

huh...

Apparently he had none, actually.

He shrugged, it seems like it was fine after all. Dustin laughed as the agents and the ghoul bickered back and forth, not that he necessarily disagreed with the decayed man's words, quite the contrary, in fact, but the goliath just so happened to be less caring of the finer details most of the time. Usually it's just a matter of pointing where to go or who to kill, nothing more, nothing less, and he was fine with that.
"Mexico's army is gigantic, they'd be a super valuable ally, sounds like we're in some deep shit if we fuck it up" He laughed, facing the morbid prospect with comedy above all. "Any surprises you expect us to face on our jolly roadtrip? Aside from the usual, that is. Sounds like you guys have some enemies that would be more than eager to get this cargo off our hands, provided they at least know about it" It may be fleeting, but for a moment, Dustin took on a manner of speech that could ALMOST be seen as serious.
 
"Just do what the other one did and say above our paygrade. You're going to live longer. -- Now the actually important questions. Our pay. Post job is obvious. How much are you going to shell out and where do we get it upon completion?"

“This motherfucker…” Song muttered through gritted teeth. She looked ready to explode and just barely contained herself as she spoke up: “Before we answer your question, I want you to do one thing. Just one. Shut the FUCK up and shove your quips up your ASS.” The Agent lowered her gaze, her blackened eyes looking straight into Slade above her shades. “You fucking wasters and your stupid fucking bravado shtick, it’s all the fucking same. Why the FUCK do you gotta make dumb comments instead of talking like NORMAL FUCKING PEOPLE?”

“Agent Song…” Black muttered, but she shot him an irate look. “Shut the fuck up. Mutie John Wayne. Really? What the fuck is wrong with you.” She then quickly returned her gaze back to Slade. “Look, you might think you’re hot shit because you are a rarity: a smart, krokie zombie wandering around with this bad ass cowboy act who hates authority like some middle-schooler. But do you have any idea how many smart krokies I’ve killed who thought they were hot shit? I’ve lost count. So, I’ll only say one more time, drop the quips and the act, or I’ll give the signal to the GI’s to turn you into a fine red mist quicker than you can put a bullet in my brain.”

“And DON’T start with this ‘I’m not scared!’ bullshit, because I will personally take a shit on what is left of you. Now, with that intelligence of yours remaining I’m sure you’ll do the smart fucking thing.”
She then said, adjusting her shades once more to hide her condition.

After such an outburst, Agent Black looked back and forth between Song and Slade and – after a few seconds of silence – answered the cowboy’s question. “Right… to actually answer: each of you will get 15% of the reward now as incentive to complete the job. This includes 250 U.S. dollars, three jerry cans of gasoline, two jerry cans of clean water, five boxes of 5.56mm ammunition and five M.R.E.s of different variety.” The agent the pulled out a paper from his long black coat, and quickly reads through it before looking back at Slade and the group. "Upon completion, the American authorities in the embassy of Tampico will personally reward each of you $2250 U.S. Dollars, seven cans of gasoline, eight cans of fresh water, five more boxes of 5.56-mm ammunition with a state of the art M16 rifle, created for the national guard, and twenty M.R.E's of different menus."

“As you can hear, the rewards are life changing for most wasters. You can use the cash anywhere within and out of Union territory. The supplies can be traded if you have no use for them. And, of course…” Agent Song said before looking at Morgan and the prisoners standing behind her, “…you would also earn your freedom.”

"Any surprises you expect us to face on our jolly road trip? Aside from the usual, that is. Sounds like you guys have some enemies that would be more than eager to get this cargo off our hands, provided they at least know about it"

"Good question." Agent Black replied, "Due to the fact we are recruiting out in the open, our enemies will - without a doubt - learn of this caravan. The key factor to counter that is misinformation. I'll tell you not what that means, but rest assured you are not the only caravan leaving town today. The second element is that you should be moving quicker than when this information spreads to reach unwanted ears. Confederates still haven't fixed their communication lines since the war, so they rely on messengers and pigeons. Depending on what routes you'll take, you'll pass through Confederate lands without them even realizing you are working for us."

Agent Black takes a deep breath, suddenly, and strange fumes can be seen exiting through his gasmask. "And, as you've said, expect the obvious. In the deep rural regions and away from the main roads, there's still roaming bands of bandits and mutants even in Union territory. But for less than you'd find in the uncivilized wastes."

Agent Song then spoke up in place of her compatriot: "You will definitely have to travel through Congaree territory. There's a ceasefire still in place between the Union and Congaree due to our shared hostilities with the Confederation. They're not hostile to caravaners, but there's roaming gang of bandits in their lands outside of major settlements."

"Indeed, I've seen some of those bandit groups wielding Union weaponry. Wonder how they got them." Priest then chimed in with a chill smile on his face. Agent Song glared at him, but did not respond. Agent Black took the spotlight to continue afterwards: "You'll find plenty of Freaks and bandits alike in Confederate territory. If you opt to continue through past their territory you'll most likely find Tejano Tribes. Some of those tribes have thousands of members ready to raid settlements and caravans - so keep that in mind."

"My suggestion: take a boat either in Florida or Louisiana." Agent Song then said, "Of course, the number of threats in those lands are numerous but it's better than getting shot to death by a band of angry bea-"

Agent Black quickly intervened to cut her off before she could finish: "We'll let you decide which is the best course of action. You might find yourselves not able to traverse through the Floridian wetlands or the Cajun bayous, but consider your options carefully."

While the others pondered on the rewards and risks laid out, Priest looked at this congregation and muttered something that was audible to the other volunteers but not the agents. "Quite dangerous." he said as he looked at his companions.

"Yeah, it's a gosh darn suicide mission." Jeb quickly muttered back.

"But the rewards are fucking AMAZING! All that ammo, water, food, and gas? We're barely making ends meet as is." Jenn quickly interjected, to which Yanaye let out a sigh. "She's right... we didn't find much in our last runs." she said with a nod.

"We'd be meetin' ends if ya sold that bucket o' bolts ya draggin' round Yanie." Jeb spat back.

"We're not selling KAZ, Jeb." Priest responded with a surprisingly stern look.

"Gosh dark it Priest, ya know what out there in Confederation territory! If we go down there again, we oughta get ourselves killed by Freaks or the darn Robes!" Jeb then said, spitting the ground when he mentioned the latter. "Curse 'em to the deepest hole of Hell!" he then muttered.

"It's true, Jeb. There's many dangers on the road down there, but we've gone several times through and survived every one of them." Priest responded, which brought a glare out from Jeb through his goggles. "Tell that to Scotty."

Priest tensed up for a moment before showing Jeb the two marks on the front of his bible. "I remember him every day, Jeb. But that ain't gonna stop me from spreading the word of God and securing valuable resources for my people. You are among them. Now, I know that Duke ain't coming because he had business here, but it sounds like most of us agree we can do this."

"Hell yeah we can!" Jenn said with a wide grin on her face, before looking over to Morgan with curiosity. "It'll be fun to travel 'round with 'em!"

Yanaye cringed as the ex-raider stared at the current rone, but she nodded. "Yeah, we can do this. Besides, it's not like we'll be travelling alone. Most here look like they will join us."

"You sure 'bout that?" Jeb then said, pointing at some of the people who volunteered. They saw the strange Gasfolk with the fur cloak ask something to the agents. After a quick back and forth betweeen them, Agent Song could be heard speaking: "If you don't want to do the job, you turn around now. But you'll be kept here in New Southport for a week so that you don't fuck up this operation by blabbering your mouth."

With that answer, the gasfolk Cris Topher turned his back on the caravan and walked towards the gate. He was then followed by Artemis, the siblings Marisol and Lucero, as well as the young Fang, Bonnie and their guardian Boogey. Upon seeing that he was still unresponsive after the beating he had suffered, Agent Black ordered the MPs to drag Callum Crane back to prison. In the end, all those that were left were: Slade, Dustin, Aitan, Runt, Morgan, Hugo, Betsy, Bean and Priest's congregation. There were also the fifteen inmates that had been piled on with Morgan, but they all looked like crooks and street rabble rather than hardened survivors with the exception of five of them that stood out from the crowd.

Upon seeing their departure, Priest looked towards Agent Song and raised his hand: "Question, Miss Song. Seeing that we've lost several of our volunteers, I was wondering... what about people that might join during our travel towards Tampico?"

Agent Song raised an eyebrow in response out of suspicion before speaking. "That's stupidly dangerous, but I'm well aware most alliances made out there in the wastes are done that way. If you encounter anyone that actually wants to help... feel free to recruit them. However, there's no guarantee they will get a reward."

Interacting: Slade ( Breadman Breadman ) Dustin ( Roda the Red Roda the Red )
Mentioned: Bean ( Lady Moldoma Lady Moldoma ) Betsy ( Lost Echo Lost Echo ) Morgan ( Infab Infab ) Aitan ( dikdik dikdik ) Hugo ( Tarot of Death Tarot of Death )
 
R U N T
The exchange between Agent Song and the cowboy hat wearing ghoul made Runt roll his eyes out of exasperation as he walked away from the exchange and instead made himself more comfortable standing near Morgan. Observing the outburst, as well as the aftermath and the other interactions - such as with that Priest and his little merry gang - he whispered over to Morgan: "If shit goes sideways, you're more than welcome to tag along with me." he muttered to Morgan, so as to not draw attention. "I'd rather stick with someone I understand than, well... anyone, really."

Interacting: Morgan ( Infab Infab )




K A Z

KAZ had remained quiet, as advised by Priest, so as to not draw attention to itself by the people it was warned about. The automaton had, instead, parsed information given by everyone around as well as analyzed it to the best of its abilities to comprehend the various quirks of human interaction. For some reason, the horse rider with the antique hat had drawn the ire and hostility of one of these agents through his words, and KAZ wondered what benefit could be derived from such an action. Surely, it was in everyone's best interests to get along smoothly for such a thing?

Additionally, there was the promise of payment to be given to those who participated in this mission. For a moment, KAZ pondered in its subroutines whether or not to question the prize given and to perhaps barter for more - as humans needed water to love and gasoline to move - but scratched that plan out of its processes. It would remain quiet until Jeb spoke up about selling it, which then stirred something within its programming: a strange internal observation after parsing the suggestion, that *felt* like the equivalent of surprise. Why would he say such a thing?

"I would very much not like to be sold." KAZ commented with lowered volume to Jeb, before turning its ocular matrices towards Priest and the others. Its "eyes" shifted to be wider as to indicate concern, before speaking: "Did I do something wrong to bring this line of thought about?" it then asked, "I apologize if that is the case."

Interacting: Priest, Jeb, Yanaye, Jenn ( EdwardDewey98 EdwardDewey98 )
 
Oh they were new at this. Slade tuned out about two sentences in when the threats started again. His hand around his waist having two fingers extended and rotating counter-clockwise. Like the old pre-war days signaling to wrap it up. They always assume he thinks himself special because of his condition instead of being a living nightmare. Maybe one day they'll have an agent who can actually analize worth a damn. Finally his question was answered. Actually more generous than previous jobs that have involved government agents. Everything else? Bullshit. They're the decoy, have to be. Still a good payday once they make it.

Question, Miss Song. Seeing that we've lost several of our volunteers, I was wondering... what about people that might join during our travel towards Tampico?
"I don't plan to use a third of my share, Priest. Use them for bargaining." He didn't seem interested in continuing to spar with the CIA. Save for one thing. "Hey, if agent Orange is still around, tell him I said hi. If he's dead, then R.I.P." The ghoul shrugged. He hated that bastard, but he was the most tolerable old government relic he met.
 
Dustin turned around, watching the handful of mercernaries that decided that this job just wasn't quite cut for them, he pouted lightly, disappointed by their actions "Boo...I don't get these people, if you're so afraid of dying, then just go and live inside a bunker or something" His usual smile returned to his face, now redirecting his attention to those that DID remain in the end, particularly the nearby pair of never-do-wells. He approached from behind the two of them, wrapping his arms around their shoulders, a shit-eating grin on his face as he violated all conventions of personal space, the fact he was now bare-chested probably didn't help. "Guess we're stuck together for a while now, huh? Name's Dustin, nice to meetcha both"


Interacting: Morgan Infab Infab , Runt joshuadim joshuadim
 
"If shit goes sideways, you're more than welcome to tag along with me." he muttered to Morgan, so as to not draw attention. "I'd rather stick with someone I understand than, well... anyone, really."

"Birds of a feather, eh?" she muttered back in response. It did help her feel a little better about their odds of survival on this little expedition. They could use all the combat experience they could get, really. Regardless of its source, though Morgan herself would prefer more Raiders joining this shindig. They were the more unteathered, fun types in the end.

A few moments later, she felt an arm drape across her shoulder. Someone didn't understand personal space. Morgan glanced down, and noticed the color of their skin immediately. Green. The half-goliath had come over and was now almost hugging both of them.

"Guess we're stuck together for a while now, huh? Name's Dustin, nice to meetcha both."

Dustin was his name. She knew a Dustin back west. Nowhere near as big, but was pretty handy with a shotgun. This one seemed more like a heavy weapons guy, as he was half-goliath.

She motioned to herself first. "Morgan Carter. I also go by 'Morg', like a morgue, or 'Cutthroat Carter', if you're into nicknames."

She then motioned to Runt, waving her hand in his direction. Letting him introduce himself.
 
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"...Runt." the man grunted out, not one for chit-chat as he was more focused on the hand on his shoulder. He didn't like that. "Mind taking your hand off?" Runt then asked bluntly, "I don't like being randomly touched."

Infab Infab Roda the Red Roda the Red
 
Hugo

Hugo had loaded up with the rest of the band of mercenaries as they got transported. Bump by bumo and meaningless conversation by conversation they made their way to their new staging area. He dismounted with the main crowd, some of the faces he recognized when he first entered the area. The mistfolk stuck to himself out of his own volition. He didn't find anyone really here worth the effort. They all seemed so, fleshy. At least one of them he knew for sure could be someone he could see eye to eye with on life. Slade wasn't something new to Hugo. He had heard many stories and seen a few ghouls who watched the world burn and could tell about it. Very few really came out so openly as Slade. In his experience, they stayed hermits or homebodies of their little communities. Many treated their gift as a curse, something Hugo could never get.

He debated going on to talk to the gunslinger ballad look-a-like, but decided against it as he seemed to start a fued between their suit employers and himself. Too much heat to be placed with the guy. Even if the explained rewards were reasonable. Not like Hugo ever held onto currency. The cash was paper all the same to him. The food, the water, the ammo, all of it truly seemed, underwhelming. Many people owed him debts, many people would also need killing for money. He didn't even join for whatever reward. He joined for something else, purpose maybe? Maybe an escape. He didn't really know. The fog of his psyche and general consciousness was one he couldn't clear since he lost himself in his vivid memories earlier on. The feeling of the past still gripped onto him as he sat in the present. He tried to snap out of it and looked to the crowd around him once more, just for someone to find some kind of anchor to now. Someone he could look to and see reality in.

Against his best wishes, Hugo went on to talk to a little trio that had formed. A human man, a half goliath, and a stylishly tattooed raider woman. They were not ones he would usually come around but they were the least flak taking group currently, and thats all he needed right now. Holding his SVDM sling tightly, Hugo breathed through his gas mask, the intercom clicking on as he spoke to the group before him.

"So you 3 joined for, some gas, ammo and colored paper? And to take a human or two along with you for it? Sounds like the house already won."

Hugos intercom clicked off with a light crackle as he looked to the group members. They were some of the lowliest people he ever met. Many of which probably would be on the other side of a bounty if he gave it enough time, but he ignored his personal gripes with them for the moment. He just needed to ground himself for a moment.


Interactions: Runt ( joshuadim joshuadim ) Morgan ( Infab Infab ) Dustin ( Roda the Red Roda the Red )​
 
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"So you 3 joined for, some gas, ammo and colored paper? And to take a human or two along with you for it? Sounds like the house already won."

Morgan cut the Mistborn a look ass he spoke, before reaching up and tapping the bomb collar with her fingers. "I've been kinda forced to join, if the chains weren't obvious enough." she responded, "Though the ammo's a good payoff. Need all the ammo you can get out in the wastes, and my Skullcracker uses five-five-six, so yeah."

She then scratched her jaw. "Still need some forty mike-mikes, though. Grenade launcher's bone dry." she muttered, before glancing in the direction of the CIA agents. She stared at them for a few moments, before shaking her head. Nah, no need to ask them.
 
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Dustin grinned once more, he found the stark contrast between the two folks' reactions to be pretty amusing, one was quite chill about it, the other one? Well, not so much apparently. He removed his arms from the pair's shoulders, raising them up in the air as if he had been caught red handed munching on that cold pizza slice in the fridge. "Alright, alright, you win, we'll do it your way then, so Morg and Runt, huh? Funny names, in a good way, I guess" A new figure approached, a man covered from head to toes in thick apparel, a gas mask both adorning and concealing his face, Dustin could only assume it was one of those fogdudes once again. Hoever, it didn't seem like the man intended to even both acting remotely friendly. The half-goliath shruged, barely even bother by his sour words. "Yeah, money's good, keeps my belly full and sometimes even a roof over my head, those help me to go around daily to slap some motherfuckers and make more money again, it's a pretty fun loop, actually"

Well, one of his points DID demind him of something he had yet to clarify. He turned around, placing his open hands perpendicularly to his mouth as a makeshift megaphone. "Oi, shades gal!" He let out, giving a couple steps forward so he didn't have to raise his voice quite as much. "I'll take the money and the rations, the rest just send it to the military base at Fort Albany, just let them know that Renfield says hi, they'll get the message" He always prefered to travel light, and also knew that his pals over there, while not in the worst condition, could always do with a little bit of support.

joshuadim joshuadim Infab Infab Tarot of Death Tarot of Death
 
Betsy flinched, forcing all of her attention on the rabidly angry Agent Song. It was fair: Bowie’s owner definitely deserved all of it for his disrespect, but the girl had never seen anything good come from an angry person. It was only her trust in the government that kept her stiff in the front of the group. It wasn’t that she froze like a rabbit.

As the agent spoke of him being a rarity, a krokie zombie? Betsy slowly turned her head from the shouting woman to look at Bowie’s owner once more. Squinting, she studied him. He was dark underneath his hat, but so was Mr. Priest. The only thing that stood out were his eyes…the sun must have somehow caught them, like an animal’s at night. They looked like they glowed. Disturbed, she returned her attention front once more to a quieted Agent Song, Agent Black speaking in her stead.

At first Betsy thought the whole reward was stated, but then the agent started listing more. She knew the government was amazing, but this was beyond her wildest dreams. She could stock a whole new bunker with all that stuff. Her head was swimming happily, and it was hard to pull her focus back down on the important stuff. The enemies they’d have to guard against. She knew about bandits and mutants, having met both since leaving her bunker, but where Congaree Territory was confused her. They were just going to Mexico. It was just below the United States of America. She could guess at the Confederate Territory, knowing her lessons, but when Agent Black spoke of a tribe Betsy was confused once more. Weren’t all the savages rounded up by President Jackson and put in reservations in the northwest? Had he really missed that many? Or did people turn savage with all the upheaval? She took a moment to wonder what the difference between a bandit and savage was before letting the thought go.

Horror filled her as she watched so many people give up already. Well, good riddance. The cowards weren’t worthy of the American armed forces anyway. “I’ll do anything for my country.” She vowed to herself.

Of those remaining, they seemed to start introductions. She loitered outside of the small group that had formed, listening to them, but not yet participating. Though she scowled at the masked man’s unappreciation of what the government was doing for them, before realizing he was probably like her: willing to support the government regardless of the reward.

She grinned, hearing the green freak sent most of his stuff to an army base. That must have been the one who tamed him. Speaking up finally, she praised him, “That was mighty good of ya. I’m Betsy. Betsy Ross.” She turned to look at everyone, including them in her introduction.

Roda the Red Roda the Red joshuadim joshuadim Infab Infab Tarot of Death Tarot of Death
 
R U N T
Already Runt didn't like the Mistborn's presence, given how he showed obvious derision towards humans, as he spared a glance to him before shrugging. "Likewise." he said towards Morgan's desire to be paid. "I travel a lot. So all that guzzoline helps." He then turned his attention towards G.I. Jane, as the Goliath Sarge had previously described Betsy, when she introduced herself to them in their little social circle that had formed. At first he didn't know what to think of her back at the city gates, and that line of thought continued now as he looked at her for a moment and studied her disposition.

She didn't carry herself like a normal wastelander, that much was obvious. Yet, she was travelling as one prior to this. What gives? the Vegas raider thought to himself before nodding. "Runt." he said as a brief introduction. He also wanted to press the issue that he felt was prevalent, but decided against it for the time being so as to not draw ire or attention. He would have plenty of time later to figure what was up with this girl later. Instead, he decided to see just how useful she might be on this actual expedition as he crossed his arms.

"What skills do you have?"

Interacting: Betsy ( Lost Echo Lost Echo )
Nearby: Morgan ( Infab Infab ), Dustin ( Roda the Red Roda the Red ), Hugo ( Tarot of Death Tarot of Death )
 
Hugo

Hugo nodded as the chained up human held no worries about her pay, speaking like most of the mercenaries he's ever heard. Money, bullets, and jobs are all that really mattered to the folk. But could he really blame them? No, he couldn't. There was a time where he was the same. Younger. More blood hungry. More driven. Maybe even more human.

Hugo went on to chuckle as the lightly worded man exposed his name as "Runt". It was just too good. Maybe he had forgotten how the world had developed in some parts, but gosh. He would never get over the odd names. It was all like scroungy dogs, tagged with their owners simple minded names. He didn't get it. But he didn't care to understand either. To him, it was all too temperary. He was far more permenant than many here. He would more than likely see them die to a wild mutant or freak, or stray bullet even. Long before he found his death.

Before Hugo could continue his introduction with his small group, a much more chipper and annoying girl came up. Something of a poster girl for the old world military. It almost shocked him the level of propaganda being so palpable just by her name. Betsy Ross she said? God, what did her mother make her read U.S History books she found in the wastes? Did those even exist anymore? He felt almost hysterical at it. It was hilarious!

"Betsy Ross? Like, the lady who did the flag? HAH! Thats a good one! Whats your real name Ross? Is it Claudia or Beathanny or something? Human sense of humor hasn't change I will give you that." Hugos intercom crackled and peaked its volume at his laugh at the unbelievability of the girls name. He was beyond doubtful it wasnt just a bit. It was too much. He had to be living some deep dark memory now.

Interactions: Betsy ( Lost Echo Lost Echo )
Mentions: Runt ( joshuadim joshuadim ) Dustin ( Roda the Red Roda the Red ) Morgan ( Infab Infab )
 
Snapping back into the reality that was in front of him and outside the heavy sinking he was feeling as he anchored his feet into the ground and wracked his brain for an escape plan was a bit more difficult than it usually was. He needed to be smart right now. Any dumb mistakes could land him right in front of a firing squad.

Aitan ran his black-stained fingers through his hair, staring at them as they came away from his face, tiny specks of suet stuck in his pores. That made him uncomfortable. He felt obvious and he hated it. He was more careful than that. Always more careful than that. But he just had to get out this time, huh? Just had to, and now he was running away or they’d throw him in front of a firing squad or prison camp or light him on fire with his own lighter or something worse.

Aitan chose to follow the group, attempting to tone down his shudder and shake just slightly. He padded down through his pockets: thigh pocket, ciga-butt wrapper, ciga-butt, lighter, fflck, lit, inhale, hold, thigh pocket, release. Aitan fumbled onto the vehicle. Mindlessly he sat as it grumbled and groaned around the town. Full of something he couldn’t name as he watched the smoke settling in the distance. Fuckin’ couldn’t have just made a run for it. Fuckin' lord.

Some intensely familiar and gut-wrenching smell started wafting throughout his nostrils, mixing uncomfortably with the heavy earthiness of the tobacco in his ciga-rette. He knew instantly what it was and chose instantly to press away the memories that surfaced with it; tapping his left fingers on his bent knee in the same way he used to those years ago, tap left tap tap right tap middle left tap tap middle right.

Some intense sense of relief wafted through his nose when he fully recognized why the smell had come back. They were dead on the ground, in piles, strung up, gutted, used for bait, as they fuckin’ deserve. The smell became so ingrained in his nose, Aitan doubted he’d stop smelling it for the rest of the day; it permeated just about his entire body and made him wince a bit as they drove through port town. Aitan scoffed at one of the other dumbasses on the truck as he rang out about how repulsive the smell was. It was all Aitan could do to keep from fuckin’ wuss ass motherfucker-ing the guy. Aitan slurped down the rest of the ciga-butt he’d been nursing on the drive and continued to press back images of his home, his family, his brother, he couldn’t do it right now and he found himself right back where he was not fifteen minutes ago craving the absolute shit out of Her. But he couldn’t do that right now, he really couldn’t. Not now. Had to get out of the city first.

Aitan was much to absorbed in the way his body felt wracked with tremors to notice too much about the massive, heavy military base doors the vehicles entered or too much about where they ended up. He dropped an expired ciga-butt over the edge of the truck and reached for another, pausing in contemplation about will-he-won’t-he ration them out a little more responsibly. He won’t. And he lit another as the vehicles came to a halt, the fools in the back unloaded, were gently frisked sending Aitan into almost a panic before he realized no one but him knew what he was carrying and where with such a light search.

Waiting in a hanger were two suited individuals that seemed to be waiting on the group. One, male, seemed a little more together than the other as he was speaking, rendering a gut reaction of I don’t trust this guy out of Aitan. Why didn’t he trust that one? Too… predictable. Too with it, together. Predictable felt unpredictable but unpredictable felt right. If you were in the know about someone being twitchy, unpredictable, maybe a little tweaky, you’d never be surprised when they were. It was expected. Expected was good… If good could exist.

The other. The woman. She was unpredictable. Good. The sunglasses indoors, the aggressive edge to her words, the subtle twitches she would make as she spoke and moved. Good. Aitan knew immediately that the two of them shared a very intimate friend. It wasn’t so hard to guess from the outside looking in. Was he always so obvious? Could everyone tell it was reasonably often him being good? Song, or whatever her name was, had to have Her around somewhere, most likely on her body, right? Aitan did, he always did, even if he didn’t need Her for a little while; but he’d tell you he’d needed Her more often than not today and was incredibly irritated by the fact he hadn’t had a chance to step away from this ragtag group of fucking buffoons long enough to oblige.

Aitan was tracing her up and down, from her straight black hair to the lingering darkness in her eyes, and by the time he realized Cain and Abel had made a request for questions, the only one he could think of was where’s she and what would it take to convince Abel for some of Her. Stealing Her, even if he could find Her would be a bit of a problem. He figured he could probably buy Her but what did he have that Abel didn’t? Himself maybe. Ciga-butts wouldn’t cut it for a trade. Fuck, he had Her in a pocket but maybe not enough maybe-

When he’d about worked up the courage to scrounge around his pocket and offer Abel-Song a butt, one of the damned fools he’d entered with started clamoring along with questions in a tone that set him just at the edge of the tiny cliff he wanted to pop right off. Just in time for the ciga-butt he forgot he had in between that dry, raw spot on his lips to burn his mouth just enough to achieve a wince, drop, spit, pocket, ciga-butt wrapper, ciga-butt, lighter, fflck, lit, inhale, hold.

Just in time for Abel-Song to start wailing and screaming at the dumb fuck that was giving her lip. Aitan paused. He intently watched her, feeling an urge to dig in his jacket pockets until he found Her, using Her and maybe even sharing Her with this Agent; NO no no no he couldn’t share Her. He couldn’t but he could-

He didn’t put the pack of ciga-butts away and he realized he’d held his breath through her entire tantrum with his gray eyes peering open just slightly more than usual. He slowly released a breath from what felt like the top of his lungs; he’d held it so long the smoke that usually left him in wisps wasn’t there. Not like he’d need his lungs much longer anyways. He was beginning to come to terms with the fact he’d either die on the road after one of these dumbbones shot him in the face or by being shot in the face the second anyone found out the fire and subsequent murders were his doing. Weird thinking of it that way. He hadn’t called it that yet. Really, he hadn’t called it anything yet. It just was.

Attempting desperately to ignore the “Go USA!”, “let’s add road strangers to this stupid fuckin’ crew”, and other oddities and spouts coming from the group around him, he started to wander his thoughts around what spoils they were told they’d receive. Honestly, it was more than he expected and less than he hoped. Fuck, he didn’t even have a gun that could use that ammunition. But who the hell knew what he was hoping for anyways? Just this morning he had a tiny little apartment with running water four days a week, all the delicious and half-stale day-old bread he could’ve dreamed of… And he threw it, burned it away all for what? Her. No. But now?

Falling back into his heels and shifting his weight to find a little stability, Aitan’s hands trembled just again. Just once or twice and he regained them. He knew what he could do. He could trade it all, relish in Her glory until he died in the Mexican desert. That might just be his new plan. But that required he survive the whole trip. Which he didn’t know if he was fully committed to.

What he was fully committed to was exploring this Abel-Song lady with the black streaks soaring through her eyeballs and the voice that was making his ears bleed. He slurped back an inhale of his ciga-butt, taking a few steps towards the woman now that everything seemed quiet; at least, quieter than it just was. He held out the wrapper full of cigarettes at her, gesturing for her to take one.

“I’ve got a light if you need one.”
 
Betsy grinned, pleased to see someone taking this seriously. “I’m stealthy! I can sneak up on a deer to kill it with a knife!” A bit of an exaggeration, but she was sure she could. “I usually kill ‘em with my bow though. I work best at night, In fact I don’t usually stay up during the day unless it’s to trade. I’m good at setting traps--for people too, so I can sleep in peace.

She went to say more when the crackle of the intercom interrupted her. “You know her! Far too many don’t know their history.” She admonished these nameless people, expecting the mistborn to agree with her. Straightening up, she put her hand on her chest and declared, “I’m her great-great-great-great1” she’d continue, unless someone stopped her, “granddaughter!” That she believed that was true was obvious. “I’m only the nth2 Betsy Ross though.” Weirdly, it had taken a while before they started naming their children after her. As if they didn't immediately recognize her accomplishment. She frowned at the second half of his question, but realized he likely hadn’t realized she was a descendent. Now he’d understand.


1.Let’s pretend I did the math
2.Again, let’s pretend.
Tarot of Death Tarot of Death joshuadim joshuadim Roda the Red Roda the Red Infab Infab
 
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"I would very much not like to be sold. Did I do something wrong to bring this line of thought about? I apologize if that is the case."

Jeb gave the robot a tired look as it pleaded to not be sold. He lacked any empathy for the thing, but he knew how important it as for Priest and Yan. He grumbled and rolled his eyes: "Oh cry me a river, nobody is selling you, clearly!" he muttered before walking off away from KAZ. Priest quickly intervened as he stood next to the automaton. "Don't mind Jebediah. He doesn't understand what you are, friend." he whispered, before turning his attention to Slade nearby. Yanaye then tapped KAZ's back to get their attention. "I wouldn't let anyone sell you, KAZ... but please, try to be more discreet. Don't show off that much emotion, especially here." Yanaye whispered, nodding her head subtly towards where Agent Song was. The CIA agent stared at both the techie and the bot, her intense gaze barely hidden beneath her sunglasses.

"I don't plan to use a third of my share, Priest. Use them for bargaining."

"Much appreciated brother." said Priest as he smiled to the ghoulish cowboy. He wondered if the man was doing this out of selflessness or simply because he had no use for the supplies being offered to him. But eitherwar, his kindness would help them secure allies in the future. "I'll be sure to put these materials to good use. And I'll be using some from my own as well. I have no use for bullets, after all." Jebediah gave Priest an irate look, but said nothing as he leaned against the truck that had drove them all here.

"Hey, if agent Orange is still around, tell him I said hi. If he's dead, then R.I.P."

Agent Song broke her intense gaze to look towards Slade. "Who the fuck is named Orange?" she asked while giving both Slade and Agent Black a quizzical look. "Likely a code name." Black replied, before turning to Slade. "Whoever you speak of must be old school. Most agents these days go by their last names." he then said, before looking at the dilapidated base around them. "...there aren't any counter-intel units to track us down these days, after all. Whoever this Orange is, I'll send them your regards."

"I'll take the money and the rations, the rest just send it to the military base at Fort Albany, just let them know that Renfield says hi, they'll get the message"

"Do we look like the goddamn postal service, motherfucker?" Song spat out with annoyance to Dustin's request of sending part of his reward back home. "Where the FUCK is this Fort Albany anyway?" she then asked Agent Black, who sighed and looked at his peer. "Confederate territory... Georgia. But unaffiliated with the Confederacy. Autonomous as long as they stay out of confederate affairs." Agent Black continued while eyeing Dustin. "I hope you understand that this request of yours is impossible, right?"

I’ll do anything for my country.

While Dustin focused his attention on Runt and Morgan, Betsy let the agents know of her patriotism. But instead of receiving praises like she had received from the MPs, both agents looked at one another with confusion before turning to the others in the caravan. "Great, one of those flag saluting, anthem humping motherfuckers." whispered Song, prompting Black to nod in response. "I know. But this is good for us." he responded while looking towards the prisoners near Morgan. "We can secure the loyalty of the War Dogs through money, but nothing beats patriotic nationalism. If we need to get in touch with someone in the group, it should be her. She would report to us any issues that arise."

"She looks fucking insane, dude. Ain't no way she's a trustworthy asset." Song muttered as Betsy introduced herself to the others by her full name, earning the mockery of Hugo. "See? Am I expected to believe there's wasters out there who KNOW who the fuck Betsy Ross is? Hell, most people in the damn Union don't even know."

"Trust me on this. I can see a useful asset in her. Unless you wish to order me otherwise, Senior Agent..." Black responded, earning a sneer from Song as he mocked her rank. "Fuck you... do what you want with her. As long as we secure Dog Company's loyalty, we will see this through." Black nodded, and walked towards Betsy, who was trying to convince the wasters that her name was real.

On approach, Agent Black did not display any of the annoyance - or snark - that Song had and instead appeared entirely cordial to signal his own indifference in the matter of the girl's naming. "Excuse me. Could I have a moment of your time?" he asked Betsy, sparing a glance to the others she was speaking to. "I had a few questions of my own. I need some clarification from you on certain matters."

“I’ve got a light if you need one.”

Song glared at Aitan as he approached her, with many thoughts crossing her mind as the man made his presence clear. She started to think of the ways she was going to gut him in front of everyone if he tried anything, some of which were of her own invention, but when he offered a smoke her thought process changed. How dare this fucking WHITE TRASH approach her for this!? She was this close to erupting and opened her mouth to scream at him, but a familiar, tantalizing scent then hit her nostrils. Her face returned to normalcy as she processed this new development, her nose visibly taking in the odour. She lifted her left hand, with Aitan assuming it was to grab his cig, but he felt her hand grab the collar of his jacket. He was brought down to her level, and she took a deep sniff of Aitan's neck. Her eyes practically glowed as she detected the scent of the Goddess on him; it was driving her almost mad. And in her inability to control herself, she dragged her tongue across his neck - along his artery.

"That... taste... exquisite... y-you had some recently, right?" she muttered as she kept smelling his neck. "Y-you have some? I have... I have to see her. You must know... I NEED to see her..." she whispered, her voice taking on an almost dreamy tone as she laid her head on Aitan's neck. Her eyes were pleading - BEGGING - Aitan to give her some.

(Aitan Background: Addict) When he heard her mutter the word "her", Aitan knew this woman was having severe withdrawal despite the fact she clearly had some not long ago. The Black Deity, or more commonly known as the Black Goddess, is a hallucination that those who heavily use BD experience at one point (especially the high quality shit). She's a faceless, statueesque, and divine woman of macabre beauty, who gently pampers those that witness her. Some say that they are just that, a hallucination of design. Others claim that it's, due to its origins in the dark and tenebrous regions of New England, an entity of some kind.

(Morgan Background: LA Raider) While the more organized spook attempted to talk with the crazy patriot chick, Morgan noticed that the crazy agent was getting into some kinky shit with the guy in the trench coat. It didn't take her long to understand why that was, as both of them reeked of that BD shit. Some drug that came from the East Coast, but the Chem-Lords back in LA loved to death and attempted to replicate. She knew many who were turned into husks after experiencing it, becoming raving and obsessed with some weird goddess...

LINE.png

"So... you sayin' this bastard got here, brother?" said a man with a gruff voice as he looked towards New Southport in the distance. "Yeah, tracked the green sumbitch all the way here boss!" said a raider wearing red, before being slapped in the back of the head by a gruff older man. "YOU DON'T INSULT MOTHERS, BROTHER!" shouted the older raider.



"S-sorry boss, youse right! Mothers be sacred!" muttered the younger one as he rubbed the back of his head. The elder spat on the grand before looking back towards the city. "Ain't no-one killin' my family and walkin' away, brother..." the veteran said, looking behind him. Twelve vehicles with others of his cohort looked at him, two of them full of cages with well fed but ferocious dogs. "He payin' for killin' our brothers. Spare no one but the children and grandmamas 'till they give'im way! Take everything you want, brother! Let the BLOODHOUNDS FEAST, BROTHER!"
 
K A Z

It hadn't meant to make it a noticeable outburst, but the reaction from Yanaye had made it clear to the automaton that it needed to be more discreet in the way it conducted itself. Especially since, out of the corner of its cone of vision, it saw that one of the Agent's had her gaze fixed upon it. It gave a silent nod to Yanaye as affirmation, before turning to the others that had gathered around. A small group had coagulated with their own conversation moving ahead, especially with the younger female and the others' inquiry into her naming. Scanning its databanks briefly, it found that the name shared a likeness with a historical figure of the former United States of America responsible for making its first flag.

It surmised that this was simply a coincidence, or that the girl's parents had named her after such. It quickly postulated, then discarded the possibility that she was in any way distantly related. It was content to remain away from the group, especially after one of the Agents had made his way over to speak to the girl in question, and instead was analyzing them. Observing, and trying to figure out each person. It manually lowered its volume tab so as to reduce its profile, and to keep its words localized to Priest and the others in the Flock: "I am making observations of the others." it 'whispered' to Priest and company, "What stands out to you about them?"

Interacting: The Flock ( EdwardDewey98 EdwardDewey98 )



R U N T

Runt stared at Betsy as she bragged about her expertise, and remained silent for a moment before coming to a set of conclusions in his head: she was bullshitting. Or delusional. Or both. "Right." Runt said bluntly to the G.I. Jane in his presence, not intending to pursue that line of conversation. Any incompetence she has would show up in the future that he could smugly remark upon. Or, rather, with Morgan as he took a few steps back to rejoin the LA Raider and crossed his arms: "I'll bet you that the girl there dies in the first two weeks." he said quietly with regards to Betsy, so as to not draw attention to his words.

"Got anything to wager?"

Interacting: Betsy ( Lost Echo Lost Echo ), Morgan ( Infab Infab )
 
"I'll bet you that the girl there dies in the first two weeks." he said quietly with regards to Betsy, so as to not draw attention to his words.

"Got anything to wager?"

"I say a few days before she does something fuckin' stupid. Maybe even hours." whispered Morgan in response. "Got a bottle of tequila I managed to salvage from a bar in Dallas. That'll be my wager."

She then glanced to Runt, cocking an eyebrow. "Unless you don't drink. Otherwise, I got nothin'." she said, adding a smirk and a shrug at the end. What raider didn't drink? Or smoke? Or shoot up with something?

Afterwards, she pointed to Aitan. "We need to watch that one." she muttered, "Both he and the spook do Black Goddess." She shifted a bit, glancing back to Runt. "Chem-Lords back in LA love it, and try to copy it all the time. I tried it once. Not my thing. You start hallucinating really bad, and eventually turn into a raving idiot."

"Those kinds aren't good to keep around. They're usually sketchy. Completely untrustworthy, in my book. Shit shots too, since they get the shakes sometimes."
she continued. "I do stims every once in a while, if I ever really need a pick-me-up. Combat highs are ten times fuckin' better, anyway."
 
Hugo
Hugo observed as the many characters of the group conversated further and exposed some, wild and concerning details about themselves. From the dysfunctional "Family Picnic" that decided being a mercenary would free them, to the drug addicts looking like two starved nymphomaniacs, Hugo couldn't help his disdain for humanity to show through.
He sucked his teeth and his pale face cringed and wrinkled as he tried not to make a comment on it all. He still needed something to occupy him through this contract. Killing had become, munotinious and annoying as a release. Something that was a chore not an exhiliration. It was no longer adrenaline pumping, just head pounding. Hugo moved to leave the group until his assosciates began a small talk betting on the survival of "4th of July".

"I'll bet you that the girl there dies in the first two weeks." he said quietly with regards to Betsy, so as to not draw attention to his words.

"Got anything to wager?"
Hugo leaned in on the convo and smirked as he thought on the wager. He was no betting man but a bit of banter at the sake of an unbearable human never was a sore choice.
"Well. I would say about 10 7.62 rounds and a bag of raisins she makes it, 10 days on the trail. Dies to a bandit trap."
Hugo chuckled at the mention of a trap killing her. These traps never proved too suffisticated or well hidden, but they did do plenty of damage when triggered.

"I do stims every once in a while, if I ever really need a pick-me-up. Combat highs are ten times fuckin' better, anyway."
"I never quite got stims. They always just make my head wishy washy. Flooded with unwanted images and unwarranted emotions. Not much of a release. Plus, to me, they just make you less. Harness your hate and pain not escape it." Hugo gripped his fist tightly as he talked on his personal philosophy on how to percieve this world. Hate and sobriety. His general methodology as to not miss a single moment or forget a single scar. He was a man of memory and purpose. At heart he despised those that tried to escape the pain. Embrace it.

Mentions: Infab Infab (Morgan), joshuadim joshuadim (Runt)
 
Dustin picked his ear with his pinky as he listened to the raven bitch lash out at him, his expression unchanged by her venomous words. His eyes then shifted target as the dude explained the impossiblity of his request. "Well shit, was worth a try I guess, let's just wait till we get the full payment and I'll see what I can do with that stuff" He shrugged, clearly not too bothered by the reactions from the agents. Turning to the small group behind him, the half-goliath listened to the others talk, scratching the light itch on his abs once it got annoying enough. "Start hallucinating? Well fuck me that sounds funny, should ask the guy for a dose and check what's all the fuzz about" Just like with booze, drugs had less of an effect on Dustin compared to humans or most adjacent, so out of he few he had try before, none had really made enough of an impact to urge him for a double dip. Therefore it was fun to give different substances a try whenever possible.

He let out a cackle at the dooming comments on the other girl from the group. "Oh come on, guys. Yeah she might be a weirdo but aren't roadtrips all the more fun with a handful of those? Hey, Bets!" He called out to the girl. "Counting on yer deer-hunting skills, 'kay? I'll make ya a roast that'll blow your socks off"


Tarot of Death Tarot of Death joshuadim joshuadim Lost Echo Lost Echo Infab Infab
 
"I say a few days before she does something fuckin' stupid. Maybe even hours. Got a bottle of tequila I managed to salvage from a bar in Dallas. That'll be my wager. Unless you don't drink. Otherwise, I got nothin'."
"Hm. Tequila." Runt mused in approval, "I do like the good stuff. There's still stashes of old world stuff in Vegas, usually for celebration. I'll take you up on that wager." The raider then wondered what he would put up before an idea popped in his head. "I'll put up... a bottle of my own. I know a guy who owes me out west. He'll bring out that bottle for me, if I lose."

It was then that Morgan pointed out Aitan's little antics with Agent Song, as his eyes darted towards them. Definitely more on the freaky side, especially out in public, as Runt furrowed his brow. "So, he's a junkie down bad. And for some bad shit too. I've heard whispers about it, but I don't think I've ever heard that name before." Runt whispered back. It was then that Hugo's sudden intrusion into their conversation brought out a side-eye from Runt. He already didn't like this mistfolk, but now he was simply waltzing in wherever he wanted. No sense of privacy on this dickhead. Runt thought to himself before shrugging.

He let out a grunt to his own bet as well as comment on stims, not particularly keen on adding more to his interaction. Then there was also the other one that had butted in again - that half-Goliath who was too handsy for the raider's own liking. "If you wanna shoot up some insane shit into your veins, then by all means. But I'm not gonna be there to wipe the slobber from your mouth." Runt then commented as a dry jest to Dustin's commentary.

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Betsy turned her attention away from her new friends (not noticing what they were saying) when one of the agents approached. Her! She must have already caught their attention. She couldn’t keep the grin off her face as she saluted, “Yes sir!” Lowering her arm she nodded eagerly, “How can I help?” They trusted her to answer questions! She was confident in her knowledge of America. This must be a test to show her readiness. And boy was she ready! Slinging her gun over her shoulder, she readjusted her goggles and nodded sharply at the man.

EdwardDewey98 EdwardDewey98
 
"Honestly if he's dead, that would be the better for everyone. Old bastard seemed to run on whatever power drug you might have left-over, booze and the desire to bring the old ways just so he can bathe the world in fire again." Slade answered the agent. They didn't seem to care about him anymore as the others came around to poke their itchy trigger fingers. Aitan was especially brave. Slade started to count down on one hand the moment he'd get his jaw knocked off and...he didn't see any of that coming. The agent managed to do it. She left him speechless. Mostly disgusted, but speechless. He looked to Betsy and Priest and just about anywhere else so he wouldn't look at...that.
 
The moment the arm reached full extension, Aitan’s body erupted in tremors of adrenaline, realizing in that moment how absurd it was to reach out after this insane woman, like handing a shred of meat to a mangey, rabid dog. Maybe not mangey, but certainly rabid. He steadied his hand, but sank back harder into his heels, subtly scooting his right foot a half-step behind his left, just in case he needed to turn quickly- or? Deck the bitch in the face. Something about the shifts in her expression- from uncontrolled rage to some semblance of normalcy behind her blackened eyes- it threw him off balance in a way he didn’t expect. Unpredictability was right, good. The brashness, twitchiness, had him slowly convincing himself he was safe here, marveling, right in front of Her.

Aitan’s left arm was still outstretched, gripping the ciga-butt wrapper a little too tightly, the tendons in his fingers and wrist rigid underneath the cuff of his jacket, his jacket felt so heavy all of a sudden, and he noticed the dirty tinge to his fingertips again, hoping the woman wouldn’t recognize it as soot, maybe that she hadn’t heard about the fire, or maybe that she was too entranced by him to see. His right hand slipped its way into his jacket pocket, just in case he needed to use it to smack this lady away. But her nostrils flared and her hard expression melted just a bit as she approached, her hand lifted. He pushed the ciga-butt hand just a little closer to her, almost afraid to touch her or let her too close for fear of-

Fucking Christ the Holy Lord above. Well that didn’t work. She balled the collar of his coat in her hand and yanked him down towards her face. He felt a little air escape his lips in a bewildered near-whimper, like he got the breath knocked clean out of his chest, and his ciga-butt fell right out of his mouth, only half fucking smoked, too, and it fizzed when it hit the ground, wisping just a little more before it went out. He trained his eyes, widening, back up to Song’s from following the ciga-butt’s demise on the concrete, his vision glazing over on the edges and becoming wholly and completely focused on Song’s face, the aggressive blackness in her eyes threatening to leak out and steal his soul if he wasn’t careful. If he even had one left. Hell, that thing must’ve been snatched away years ago by now if it ever existed in the first place.

Song’s face was far enough from his to require quite the jerk of the neck to be forced down to; she moved to smelling him shortly thereafter. But the kind of smelling that was intense, intentional, she was seeking Her and he knew he smelled like Her, too. The thought of the absolute belligerent idiocy from last night had Aitan feeling a delayed recoil in response to Song, tugging away from her face, hardly any true motivation to do so. And whatever motivation there had ever been in his entire stupid fucking life leached right out of the side of his neck- following any warmth that was left in his body, gushing out of his jugular as her tongue crept its way up from his collarbone to his ear; smooth at first and then sticky, leaving a wet trail behind as it finished its ascent. Shivers started along its path and settled over his entire body, ambling out in spheres and feeling like he was walking through a thousand spiderwebs- horripilation.

The mesmerizing words seared into his eardrums as his body started melting just slightly closer to hers, slipping his back foot closer and suddenly finding the wrapper on the floor right next to where the stub of a ciga-butt had landed and sizzled out a moment before. His hand didn’t know where to go or what to do now that it was empty, but the right one had escaped the grasp of his pocket and wandered to meet the arm that was tugging him downward, grasping at its sleeve with a desperation he hadn’t experienced in what felt like a thousand years, but a day.

Song’s breathless begging for a glimpse at the Unholy Deity above, or below, or wherever the fuck She came from, turned into mumbling as she pressed her face into his neck, her breath rattling across his skin. His voice tried to put something useful together, but the only thing that came out of his lips, past the burned, dry spot he forgot about until just now, was something of a defeated whimper. Lament. He was doing better, he was really trying to maybe do just a tiny bit better. But? What’s the point of Resistance? Nothing matters in this fucking hellhole anyways.

Aitan’s eyes finally shifted from staring into some void or another to watching the nearly cramping stiffness of his left hand soften and leak its way into an interior pocket of the right side of his jacket- the same side Song was pressing against and pulling. It didn’t take long to find its target, and it took no words and fewer notions to convince itself, and its owner, that this was the best choice. The thin plastic sheet wrapped around Her was the only thing separating Her from the world around, becoming tainted with its humidity, its heat, just everything about it. She deserved to be shielded from everything here. Everything but Song. And him. Fingers tightened around the malleable plastic, and around the arm snatching the collar of his jacket, pulling it in just a slight bit closer.

Something about this felt so wrong, just giving Her to some random rabid bitch he’d just met who was still coming down from the absolute highest of highs and who was most certainly just getting a rise out of him so he’d hand over his most prized possession- but everything else felt right. You could come with us, you know. I have enough of Her to kill seven fucking half-Goliaths and then some. We could find Her together over and over and over again. Was what he wanted to say. He tightened his hand around Song’s arm again, feeling some of it squish out from around his white-knuckled grip.

“What’re you planning on giving me for Her?” Was what he breathed at her, trying to keep his voice steady and quite enough to go unnoticed by everyone but the woman by his throat. He pulled the tiny gift out of his pocket, leaving it in his palm, and gestured towards Song. Half-hoping she’d take it so he’d be free of Her for just a second longer. Half-hoping she’d take it so he could bribe her into seeking Bliss with him.
 
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