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

[Lost Echo]

As her fingers brushed against the leathery skin, the horse made a noise! Yanking her hand back, Betsy froze and prepared to run. If she needed to, she could climb on one of the cars. Then jump to the top of the RV and there it…it was just standing there. Betsy met its great dark eye, then slowly reached up and placed her palm against the side of its neck. Her mouth slightly parted with awe as she took a shaky breath. It was colder than she expected. Nothing like a freshly killed deer. Almost as if it’d been dead for a while. Still, she could see it breathing steadily expanding in the seat tied to it. It was amazing. Glee spread across her face.

"That has never happened before."

Turning to face the man atop the horse as he spoke, she cocked her head, puzzlement warring with the smile on her face. It was hard to see his face with her goggles and the light behind him, but she still asked, “What do ya mean?” She turned back to the horse, which was far more interesting, running her hand along its neck. Its skin was so smooth. Didn’t animals have fur or feathers? Horses must be mostly naked like she and other people were. Probably because they worked so well together! She wondered if it got clothes when it was cold too.

 

[EdwardDewey98]

The Sarge grinned widely upon hearing Dustin’s response. There was some suspicion originally on the Gunnery Sarge’s mind when he heard that the half-goliath was from Fort Albany in the Dixie Territories, but after studying his outfit and mannerisms it became clear that there was no affiliation with the Dixie Army. “THERE WE GO, SOMEONE WITH BALLS IN HERE!” the Sarge shouted, before slapping Dustin’s left arm – with an impact that would break any regular human’s but for a half-Goliath it was just a painful slap. “At ease, soldier! You better be signing up for this mission Renfield, ‘cause I need people with GUTS defending this caravan, you hear?” he then said, before hearing the cocking of a gun.

“The kid’s pulled a gun!” said an MP as they, and several others aimed at Bonney, but the commanding MP quickly shouted at them. “She’s just a kid, you idiots.” The CO spoke, much to the Sarge’s annoyance.

“The fuck you saying, Captain? Kid soldiers were the reason we lost the Battle of New Athens.” The Goliath spoke, looking down at Bonney down below. “Listen here, lil’ red riding hood lookin’ ass… you fire that thing at me, you know what will happen?” he asked, crossing his arms on his massive chest. Before the child could muster an answer, he screamed out again: “I’M A GOLIATH, KID.”

He yanked Bubbah’s pistol out of his hand, much to the MP’s dismay and sputtering, and pressed it against his chest. He fired a single round that was muffled by his clothing and flesh, much to the shock of the MPs, and allowed the bullet to fall harmlessly. Only his clothing had been damaged; “You think that little peashooter you got is gonna kill me? Really? LEARN, KID, SO THAT YOU’LL SURVIVE. ‘CUZ THERE’S MANY A GOLIATH ABOUT THERE THAT CHOSE TO BE SCUM! And believe me… they’ll kill you and this mass of inbred muscle you got as a guardian.” The Sarge then spoke, eyeing Boogey at the end of his rant. “I can tell you want to tear me apart, fairy godmother lookin’ ass, but I can crush your head with just my bare hand. So think of your brats, you hear?”

Before things could escalate any further, Priest walked in-between the massive Goliath and Boogey, with the ordained wanderer giving the Sarge a smile that contrasted with the disappointment in his eyes.

“Fathers, do not embitter your children, or they will become discouraged.” Colossians 3:21

“In everything set them an example by doing what is good.” Titus 2:7

Priest recited aloud, much to the annoyance of the Sarge. “I’m doing good, by telli-“

“No, you’re not. This isn’t how children learn. You’re treating them like soldiers. Kids deserve love, respect and kindness, not an earful of yelling like a recruit in a barrack.” Priest shot back quickly, interrupting the Goliath as he tapped the Sarge’s chest with his holy book. “Look at you. How come a good person such as yourself is tormenting a poor little girl with shouts and threats, Jeremy?” he then asked, looking over at Boogey.

“Her guardian is what we call a Freak out there. We all associate them with violence and barbaric savagery. And yet, he’s being a more godly person than you now, by protecting his wards.” Priest then continued, annoying the Sarge further who clenched his large fists into meaty balls for a moment. “Let them be, Jeremy. You have your troops, willing men ready to serve, so let kids be kids. Teach them be setting an example.”

Gunnery Sergeant Jeremy gave Priest a look as though he would rip the man apart in that moment. In his mind, he was in the right; treating kids like soldiers IS the way to prevent them from being killed, or worse, out there. But then he thought of the distant days before the war… when kids could be kids. Happy and carefree. The nostalgic thought hit the Sergeant like a truck, and he softened his expression a bit. Eventually, he gave Priest a nod and turned away from both him and the kids. He wouldn’t annoy them further.

Priest let out a sigh of relief, before turning about to face Boogey and the children. “Don’t mind him. He’s a good person, but hundreds of years of service changes a man.” He tried to explain to the two.

“Good person? Priest, that dude looked like he was gonna split you in half!” Jess spoke up, scratching her head in confusion.

“But he didn’t. And he walked off. That’s the important bit.” Priest replied, his smile growing. “He very much could have, I don’t doubt that. It would’ve been very gruesome, that’s for sure. But in the end, he chose to turn away. Like any good Christian would.”

“Or maybe he got too tired to debate your ass.” Jeb piped in, adding his dose of skepticism.

“Maybe,” Priest shrugged, “But I’d like to think I gave him food for thought.”

He then looked over to Marisol as she spoke to KAZ, his head tilting at their current conversation.

“Hey Metal Man. I appreciate the diplomacy, even if the fool won’t say I’m sure my brother does as well.”

“If this is a humanitarian mission why do they need prisoners…wouldn’t that just make things worse?”

"Simply doing my *job* as requested by my, er... Master."

"Working theory: readily available and coerced labor for use by the state to enforce its own actions -- It won't work."

Yanaye overheard as Marisol and KAZ talked with one another, and did notice the robot’s awkwardness to say ‘master’. She knew exactly why Priest acted the way he did: if the Union knew that KAZ was sentient, they would try to ‘reclaim’ him as an asset for the government. Like it was property, rather than a being. It was best for it to pretend to be a regular old clanker, otherwise they would whisk it off away to god knows where.

“You ain’t from here, right girl?” Yanaye asked with a friendly grin to Marisol, “Penal battalions are a thing around these parts. Even Dixie’s got a few running around. Over at Congaree we banned the practice but... we had one or two for a while.” She turned to face the woman, before realizing that she probably didn’t have a clue about anything on the Union, Dixieland, or the Congaree. “Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m Yanaye! This lovely hunk of metal is KAZ. It’s nice to meet you, Miss…?” Yanaye then asked, while also eyeing her brother for a moment, noticing he was quite attractive as well despite the large horn in the back of his head.

"One! They will try to have sex with each other. If you do not know what that means, by some miracle, then you are to not ask the raiders, goliaths and especially the freaks what that means. Old priest over there would tell you more. Two! Failing the first, the alpha of the getting wrecked crew must be chosen and they will do so through conflict. Whether its Buzzcut or Auntie Batshit, I can't say, as he is having a hard time with a woman who's tied up. And finally THREE! They will try to kill each other. Much as I love to watch, I don't have snacks, booze or betting money so it would be a waste. Instead we have to keep them in check."

Meanwhile, after Slade explained to the kids about the ‘nature of raiders’ while Runt and Morgan talked, Jess noticed that the LA raider looked at her for a moment while grinning. Jess blushed for a second before grinning back, then making a lewd gesture as she pressed her index and middle finger against her face and put her tongue between them. Priest shot the young ex-raider a disappointed look, before looking over at Slade. “I’d rather not explain such things to the young ones, but if I’m not given a choice then I suppose I will… at any rate, I believe I’ve seen you before, sir.” Priest spoke as he neared Slade. “While there’s many out there who don cowboy clothing and ride their trusty steeds, not many suffer of the krokodil… where you ever in Reno by any chance?” he asked, before offering his hand to Slade before Betsy caressed his horse.

• Interacting: Boogey, Bonney & Fang ( AriAriAbabwa SavannahSmiles ) Slade ( Breadman ) Morgan ( Infab ) Marisol ( BriiAngelic ) KAZ ( joshuadim ) Dustin ( Roda the Red )
• Nearby: Betsy ( Lost Echo ) Cris Topher ( Azurian Dream ) Artemis ( SavannahSmiles ) Runt ( joshuadim ) Lucero ( BriiAngelic ) Aitan ( dikdik ) Callum ( Sistros )

 

[joshuadim]

R U N T​

"Little of this, little of that. Though I cut out a chunk of the problem on the way out of LA. I'm guessing you're also a long ways away from Vegas for similar reasons... or I could be wrong. Raiders tend not to leave their own by choice, though."

Runt's own initial anger to Morgan waned somewhat when she revealed a tiny fraction of the truth. There were no specifics exchanged, yet Runt understood what she meant as he looked at her for a moment before giving her a knowing nod. Nothing else need be said as he removed his bandana and wiped his mouth. When taunted by the ghastly horseman, Morgan gave a response as she slid back to her outward persona and redirected the question to Runt. He let out a grunt: "Unless you give me a reason to slap you on the head again," he replied flatly to the LA Raider, "then Option Two is our route."

Infab

 

[Infab]

"Unless you give me a reason to slap you on the head again," he replied flatly to the LA Raider, "then Option Two is our route."

"Good deal." was Morgan's response, with a thumbs-up as she lifted up her chained hands. At least that's settled. For now. She shifted her attention back to the others, and caught that one raider girl that was with the priest group making a rather lewd gesture at her. A smirk appeared on Morgan's face, and she responded by blowing the raider girl a kiss. Maybe they'd have some fun later. For now, however, Morgan was stuck in these chains without her things.

She liked her things, and she would like to have them back. Soon.

 

[Tarot of Death]

Death is the end for many, and just life for some.
Hugo

DAYS BEFORE
Hugo walked in a desolate field, stricken with deep pockets of old bomb cavities and desolate land. The land ruined by his birth giver, the mist. It cracked and fluttered away even under his light step, the ground far from farmable even after these centuries of sitting. He came here often, not that this place in particular held anything of value. There were no trees, no homes, no people, no city, no traders, no nothing. Just land of death, and Hugo embraced it often. There weren't crows, there weren't worms, there weren't humans, goliaths, or anyone. He was in a land of his inner being. Dead. Long forgotten. Beyond repair. Harsh to all who enter it, all but those born of it. He looked onward to the horizon, a deep purple being made with the clouds and setting sun, along with a little help from the light mist always present here. It was peace to him. Peace in death. If he ever had a faith, it would be that death is the only constant. That all must die, and he would be on the front to assure it. Especially those he deemed worthy of an early end.

Ending his moment of contemplation, Hugo dug through one of his side pouches and opened a paper, a picture of a rough and one eyed man printed on it with the name "Gutteral "OshKosh" Elrey". Some militia living human, terrorizing plenty of folks across many areas of the east. His small band of miscreants rode in shottily restored military vehicles, with his notable trophy being a scrapped together OshKosh HEMMTT. The heavy duty truck was nice to have for someone like Gutteral, but served no interested to Hugo. He was a loner, someone who has walked enough and traveled far enough to not care for a truck or bike or whatever else many use. He couldn't feed an OshKosh hard tack. He could't fuel it on water. There was no point to have it if he had no supply. Besides, the only reason ,besides his burning hatred, he cared about the man was the bounty. A printed reward of 400 "dollars". The corpse of the US still used their tenure and power to make a currency, worthless beyond their borders. Most of the many bounty posters and collectors Hugo knew who would trade a wide variety of items for the bounties. Many of course being in the close enough city of New Southport. A cesspool of more underling humans and disgraces. But a place of the very few he could tolerate. If you could call gritting your teeth every time you interact with them "toleration". Looking down at the paper, a quick scribble of the last known location was in blue pen ink. Making a mental note of the area, Hugo put it away and started to walk the general direction of the area. Hopefully the disgusting flesh bag hadn't moved from his camp since last reported.

A DAY LATER
Hugo moved on slowly as he approached the hill overlooking a small pass. The wide open land filled with half dead trees and packed ground littered with sparse clutters of bush and flora hid a small team of 6 soldiers. There was a gun truck, a rusty and questionably operable machine gun atop its roof, a small makeshift armored car, and the golden goose of the bounty. The HEMMT. Gutteral sat aside the tires smoking a cigarette as his accomplices patrolled the stopped convoy of armed vehicles. None of them wore armor or really any uniform at all. It truly looked like a band of misfits. Maybe they were just misled veterans. Souls of a past war. Maybe they needed a guiding hand.
HA! Fuck em!
Hugo laid down, his body softly meeting the ground, almost melding to it. He reached over his shoulder, grabbing the stock of his SVDM and setting up the bipod and placing it firmly in the dirt. His vantage point wasn't the most concealed, but it didn't matter. These miscreants were not known for their shooting nor for their situational awareness, he would do fine. Scoping in and double checking his ranging to make sure it was set for the moment, he prayed his rifle would find its target on a cold barrel. Whatever cruel god and force made it so a cold barrel differed from a hot one deserved every inch of hate. Breathing in slowly, Hugo found the moment one of the men stood just still enough, a bullet meeting the neck of him and his body falling. The shot ringed and every other soldier was up in arms, searching for the source. Gutteral even put out his cigarette, funny. BAM! BAM! BAM! 3 more of the apocalyptic minutemen fell to their demise, the last two being a woman and Gutteral huddled behind the HEMMTT. There wasn't much to shoot. No body or anything, till Hugo noticed their feet lightly scuttle across the ground as the moved. It was a perfect slit. Almost comical. Finding the slit in the armor, Hugo shot once into the woman's foot, her dropping in pain and being dropped dead as a bullet pierced her exposed head. The last one left was a rattled Gutteral, gripping his rifle and safely crouched behind one of the thick and large tires of the HEMMTT. Before Hugo had a moment to think, Gutteral stepped out from cover and fired in the direction of Hugo, missing all of his shots and only making his death quick. With one quick shot to this chest, Gutteral laid back, stiffened and twitiching as he bled out, then softening. Walking down the hill, Hugo looked at all the bodies. Many were young, some maybe even teenagers or just deceivingly young looking. Hugo didn't care, all humans died the same. Grabbing the thinned hair of Gutteral, Hugo stretched the neck of the man, pressing his knife against the still warm throat and hacking into it till the neck came off from the torso. Not much dripped out of the new wound, but whatever had stalled in the now severed head leaked away. Using Gutteral's hair, Hugo tied the hair to his belt, letting the head hang freely on his hip. Checking the bodies, Hugo found nothing of real use, but did find that his woman victim had a golden tooth. Bending down, Hugo moved to tug on the took lightly and tap it. It seemed solid and rung good enough to catch him a good price at a market. Though he had no real way to remove the tooth, he had one choice. Kick the bitches teeth out. With a good stomp, the tooth and a few extra around it came out. Picking through the woman's mouth, Hugo dropped the tooth in his side pouch and moved on from the scene, going on to New Southport.
CURRENT DAY
Arriving at one of the guarded posts of the walls of Southport, Hugo spoke no words as the uniformed guards demanded him to state his business, seeing as he had a head on his hip. With slowness and sureness to not be shot, Hugo pulled the bounty paper out, along with untying the head of Gutteral. He held the both up in a show of comparison and waited for a response from the guards. There was a moment of silence. No, a moment of disgust. Of horror. The guards were sure it was the bounty, but what kind of man cuts the head of them and adorns it like a fashion statement. Someone disgusting that is who. Nonetheless, it was not a reason to halt their monstrous bounty hunter. Hugo stepped forward with permission and walked on to his go to spot. "Spindo's Bar and Pawn" A ramshackle two story building fit with many items and vices. It was more of a brothel and fence, but that wasn't as appealing to some of the more, civilized, folk. Hugo held no interest for the vices of man though, walking in and heading straight to the counter, where Spindo himself stood behind the counter eyeing a firearm which had a tag attached to the the trigger guard. Walking to the counter, Spindo immediately recognized his customer, giving a courteous but maybe more so friendly tone to his words.
"Well hello Mr. H. Good to see you again. I see you have an, ornate, piece around your hip. Assuming that is a bounty and not a political statement?"
The fence joked and motioned for Hugo to lay the head on the table for him to examine. Hugo did so, along with the bounty paper for good measure. Spindo took his time to match the identity and nodded in satisfaction after a few minutes of intense investigation and verification.
"Well, it is Mr OshKosh alright. I can offer you some nice refreshments we got, or maybe one of my wonderful ladies, or even this beautiful pie-" The fence as cut short by the drop of the golden tooth by Hugo. The blood on it stained deep, making crimson droplets faintly show in the light. Spindo looked at it and examined the quality, smiling with his discovered results.
"Well, that is certainly a spectacle. Is there anything in particular you would want? Not much you can't afford you know. Have plenty of credit leftover from your many trips."
Hugo shook his head, studying the shelves and signs of what was available. He didn't need much. But he did have something he needed, craved, hell, demanded. Raisins. With a croak and crack of his gasmask speaker, he spouted one sentence.
"2 pounds of raisins. And 30 rounds of 7.62x54mmR"
Spindo hurried away, nodding his head as he went into his back room, opening a heavily armored door and returning with a small case of ammo, once again leaving into the armored door and returning with a small blocky box labeled "H Raisins", a reserved supply specially held for Hugo. Spindo wrote down on a notepad and handed Hugo his items, the masked Mistfolk packing the items. Before he could leave though, his pawning acquaintance harkened him back to tell him of a business opportunity.
"You know H, there has been a good deal of talk about Southport wanting some qualified escorts for some mission they got planned out. Say the pay is good. I know you don't care much for that but think, you can get whatever you could ever need. Hell, maybe find yourself a nice house in the Mist and settle down with a Miss-"
Hugo reached over the counter without warning and gripped tightly on Spindo's throat. The cold covered hands of Hugo were unwavering as Spindo begged for his loyal customer to stop, as well as his many body guards pointing rifles and shotguns right to the skull of Hugo. With Spindo's waving hand, the guards lowered their weapons, hesitantly and still on edge as Hugo threw Spindo back after he released him from his iron grip. Leaving and going on to talk to one of the roaming MPs asking directions for the signing area for the announced mission. Travelling to where there was now a small line, Hugo waited for the few to leave the line after talking to the man at the desk. As Hugo approached the desk, the man looked to Hugo and asked a few questions, listing them off like a monotonous drone.
"Name? Skills? Age? Citizen Status? Genetic Makeup?"
For Hugo, it was enlisting all over again. An ancient memory, a world long gone and far forgotten or even unknown to many. With deliberation, Hugo decided to be honest with his recruiter. Funny enough.
"Hugo. Sniping. 270 years old. Wastelander. Mistborn." The creak of Hugo's words gave no hint of thought to what he said, almost like he had been tracking everything he said by heart since his birth. It was uniform, quick, and monotone. It made no difference to the recruiter though, he huffed and shook his head slowly as he ticked a few boxes on his paper and pointed to the back of his setup area.
"Join the others back their old man. Don't let the arthritis catchup with you."
The recruiter let out a chuckle as Hugo walked past him, quiet as a ghost and as hateful as a poltergeist in the moment. Walking back into the area, Hugo saw a wide variety of faces. Humans, Goliaths, a robot, a very young Mistborn, and a few inbetweens. This seemed, distasteful to Hugo. A cruel joke played by the universe. They would all surely die. But maybe that isn't an issue. Once you have lived a life of a 20 some odd year old for a few centuries, you get ready to die. Sitting down in a not so crowded part of concrete, Hugo opened his small box of raisins, revealing many vacuum sealed baggies of raisins within, smiling under the gasmask. Taking off the gasmask, Hugo revealed his pale, stretched skin, a few prominently black veins traveling along the side of his bald head. His neck tattoo peeked just over his smock suits collar. Enjoying a bag of raisins, he closed his eyes, letting ever bite further his euphoria of fulfilling his desire.

Interactions: Open to everyone

coded by Mister Glass​

 

[Breadman]

What do ya mean?

"Well, I'm a cranky old man that is very short with a majority of adults I meet because they annoy me a lot of the time. And yet somehow, I'm more of a people person than Bowie here." Slade patted the horse "He has bitten more people than cactus apples and kicked a short person clear across 10 feet once because the dipshit was loud and annoying. But here you are, touching his leather bag hide and he's not making a peep. So I'm wondering if he's sick or something."

I’d rather not explain such things to the young ones, but if I’m not given a choice then I suppose I will… at any rate, I believe I’ve seen you before, sir. While there’s many out there who don cowboy clothing and ride their trusty steeds, not many suffer of the krokodil… where you ever in Reno by any chance?

"Been there a few times on caravan jobs." Slade extended his hand to shake the priest's. He seemed alright so far. "Don't think its hard to remember someone like me. Krocks stand out on account of looking like this." He pointed to his face "The sane ones at least. Most get lost in it and go feral. Don't recall your face from anywhere Padre. You a Reno native?"

 

[Lost Echo]

Bowie. Betsy mouthed the name. Her attention left the man to turn back to the horse. “It’s probably ‘cuz I just washed. You can’t go huntin’ if you smell like blood.” If deer minded her less if she wasn’t bloody, surely the horse was the same. Still she felt special, almost as much as this horse and its rider. She laughed gaily at the thought of someone being kicked so far. She’d had people she’d like to do that to herself. But then, “Sick? It’s not catchin’ is it?” She didn’t remove her hand from the leathery pelt nonetheless, instead sliding it down his neck to the great muscular thigh. “It looks a mite thin. Not that I’ve seen a horse before. It is a horse, right?”

She’d been ignoring the commotion from the green freak. She trusted the government to keep control of its tools. It might sound mean, but they wouldn’t let it do anything but yell. Though why they let it yell, she didn’t know. But then the rider started talking to the priest.

not many suffer of the krokodil…

Was that what the horse had? Betsy pressed her cheek against the horse, careful of her goggles. She had no idea what that was, but if it was suffering...

Krocks stand out on account of looking like this."

Betsy turned to look up at the rider once more. All she could make out was the silhouette of a man. What was wrong with him? Was he scarred? She had a scar. A huge twisted thing. She’d thought she was going to die. She’d had to stitch herself back together again, clumsily going in and out of her skin. Pushing the memory away, Betsy wondered what he did. Could you sew your wounds on your face?

Breadman EdwardDewey98

 

[Lord Moldoma]

Normally, whenever a freak leaves home it's because they've been driven out by humans. Rather than being driven out by their own family. Told to beat it, just because, even among the freaks and genetic outcasts of the world, you're different. Now that's a story.

When your arms let you dunk a basketball standing up, you'd best hope wherever you decide to live is spacious, or else you'll bump your head alot.

In a tattered cloak that shaded over their face and covered all of their body but their massive clawed toes, a stranger walked towards the city with a piece of rebar over their shoulder, a stitched couple of pillow-cases tied and bolted to the end of the rebar. no doubt containing their belongings, one of which appeared to be a plush lamb in remarkably good condition for a pre-war artifact, leaning out the back of one of the pillow-cases as if it was merely a friend or pet in along for the ride.

Under the cloak lied the best in naive beauty that a race like the freaks of the wasteland had to offer. Someone who's skin wasn't covered in tumors, and while her jaw could extend significantly more than it should've been able to, that didn't give her a face that was impossible to love. It was probably at least part of the reason that her family hated her so much, and worked her like a slave animal before she had been driven away and into the wilderness by one of her abusive caretakers.

It was only through the kindness of the ocassional hopeful soul, and the carelessness of the occasional human trying to take advantage of her that she had even survived her journey afterwards in the first place.

 

[ItcamefromtheVoid]

Two days ago somewhere outside of Southport.

The sun cracks over the horizon; warmth caresses Claire's cheek as she stares down her Timberwolf rifle. The heavy long-range rifle was a gift, something that Winter thought she would like. She adored the weapon. The coyote brown rifle with some added spray paint for camouflage was a relic, but the simplicity of the weapon made it function perfectly after she had cleaned and oiled it. "You ready for Southport?" Winter asked as she focused on the gang they were hunting. A group that had killed and pillaged a couple of places putting their name on a local bounty board. The members were worth chump change, dead or alive, but the leader was worth a pretty penny if he were alive.

"What do you mean, ready for Southport? I'm always ready." Claire asked with a mocking tone that wreaked waves of sarcasm. But her eye never left the scope. She completely focused on the enclave of the small village the gang ransacked and occupied. Her breathing was shallow and quiet. As calm as stagnant water.

"You know what I mean, Claire." Winter growled, hands wrapped around a pair of binoculars that were too small for his face. The outer lense of the left side cracked, but they still worked well enough for him to see two gang members in the towers, plus the four gathered around the campfire, a pot put on to boil. "Every time we go somewhere, you always cause trouble for us. You always have to have an attitude." He scolded.

"Eyes up, we got movement." Claire said changing the subject. The last thing she needed was a lecture from him again. "I don't see our man Cole, though." Their target is a gang leader called Winston Cole. A killer of the lowest kind. A testament to the time they were awake on the top of their scavenged truck. The rust bucket was a Frankenstein with parts from other vehicles when it broke down. The two had even rigged a mount for the light machinegun they found in an old battlefield.

"One in the sniper tower on the west side of the camp, one in the east." Winter used his pointer to adjust the magnification of the binoculars as he surveyed the camp with his partner in crime. This wasn't their only line of work. Not bounty hunters. The two of them were more mercenaries than anything. From escorts to repossession. They've worked the wasteland working in a morally grey area of the apocalypse. "Cole must still be sleeping. We watched the camp all night and didn't see him leave." Winter added, as his mind focused on the task at hand.

"Must be sleeping in." Claire joked.

"I think you might be right for once." Winter chuckled.

"What are you talking about? I'm always right." Claire almost removed her eye from the scope to look at Winter, but she kept herself from doing so and moved her sight to the eastern side of the camp.

"He's coming out of the tent now, on the north side."

"I see him."

Winter brings his binoculars to the Western side of the camp. "The wind is blowing eastbound. Target is about six hundred meters out." Winter gave this information to Claire. She wrote it down in her D.O.P.E. a small notebook she found with a few of the pages still untattered from time and weather. Claire adjusts her scope to compensate for the wind, taking longer breaths as she prepares to take the long shot.

"Target in sight."

"Fire when ready."

Claire takes in a deep breath. The wind flows through her white hair. She wiggles her fingers in the rifle's grip and squeezes the trigger.

BOOM! CRACK! The recoil went through her body with a satisfying rush. She exhales, drawing the bolt back and sliding it forward. Never once moving her rifle. Adjusting her position to the next unsuspecting victim. The red mist appeared through her scope and she smiled viciously.

"Hit. The next is a little closer, five seventy-five." Winter said.

"Looks like this one is wondering where his watch buddy went." Claire bit her lip in anticipation. Of course, she's never been with a man, but she could imagine that it would be like firing a high-powered rifle and hitting your target from so far away they can't hear you take the shot. Having the recoil send a tingle through her entire body and the exhilaration that came with seeing the mist from the impact.

“Just make sure you kill him before he can alert the others.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Claire exhales then takes in a deep break holding it in her chest as she squeezes the trigger. BOOM! CLAP! The bullet hits its target leaving a stain from their head on the wall as it tore through their skull. Winter kept watch over the others to make sure they didn’t notice they were being picked.

“Good hits. Now let's go get Cole.”

“Sounds like fun. How many are there?”

“Four plus Cole in his tent.”

Claire rode in the back of the truck with Winston Cole across from her, the pistol in her lap and her eyes closed. They were in the box with the dead members of his gang. Cole smirked at her as he tried to get free from his bindings. "I wouldn't do that if I were you…" Her impersonal voice made Cole freeze in his motions. "Lemme guess, you were going to get yourself free, take my pistol and shoot me then him?" His eyes became wide as she saw right through him.

"So what if I was?"

"Claire…" Winter said keeping his eyes on the road. Knowing what she was leading into, and this would not help them get paid in full.

"Well, Cole… I can call you Cole, right?" Claire licked her lips when he looked away from her in defiance. She didn't move, though. She just sat there with a wicked smile on her face. "We get paid whether you are alive or dead."

"Yeah, but I'm worth more alive."

"Just don't kill him Claire."

"Maybe to a bounty hunter, but we aren't bounty hunters." Cole was now confused and curious. "Mercs really, so it doesn't matter if you make it to Southport alive or dead. We still get paid, and with all your dead pals here, we would make your bounty alive. So be a good boy and sit." She placed the barrel of the pistol on Cole's ankle and pulled the trigger.

Cole cried out in a cacophony of insults and cuss words directed at Claire, all of which she was, mostly. A few she didn't have the experience to claim, but that didn't matter. Her smile crew wider when his agony had dwindled to some incoherent groans and grumbles. That’s when they came to the busy city. Winter stopped the truck, and the two hopped out. The sound of someone calling for workers from the wasteland to come together for a mission. It sounded like music to their ears.

Winter looked at Claire. "You go get us on that caravan job. I'll bring these in, so we get paid."

"Sounds good to me." Claire holstered her pistol and approached the officer with a megaphone shouting out into the crowd at the gate. "Got room for two more?" She asked.

Interacting with: EdwardDewey98

 

[EdwardDewey98]

"Hugo. Sniping. 270 years old. Wastelander. Mistborn."

More volunteers made their way to the entrance of New Southport, continuing to add to the crowd that had gathered out there. Hugo had entered the town earlier in the day so the commanding officer knew who he was and glared at the recruiter who made a joke at the mistfolk’s expense. However, the military policemen were alerted by nearby civilians of the approach of another volunteer. One whose imposing and terrifying appearance immediately caught the nerves of the guards. “What the hell?” said the CO as the towering Freak approached the city, with two MPs raising their pistols and aiming as a precaution.

However, the commander quickly berated them as it didn’t seem aggressive nor threatening in the way it moved. “What the hell are you two doing? Settle down!” he shouted through gritted teeth before pointing to “Bubbah”. “You. Go see what she wants.” He ordered, which brought visible hesitation to the man’s face as he looked between his CO and the approaching Freak before gulping and making his way slowly over to her.

“U-uh… miss?” the soldier muttered as he offered a form to the mutant. “…you, uh, here to volunteer in a mission?” he then asked, his hand trembling from being so close to the giant thing in front of him.

“What is she?” Jess asked quietly as she stared at the mutant with fascination gleaming in her eyes.

“She’s a freak.” Priest replied, as he started down the recent arrivals.

“Bullshit! She’s… kinda cute!” the raider then commented, much to the annoyance of Yanaye.

“Can you stop leering at everything with breasts we meet in our travels?” the techie asked with indignation, but was only met with a grin from Jess in response.

“C’mon man, you gonna wait the whole fuckin’ day?” shouted the Sarge upon seeing the arrival of Claire and Winter, the latter using the opportunity to hand over a bounty at the MP offices. “We can’t recruit every god damn wastelander that wanders up in this. Close up shop and get these people to move on.” Said the Goliath as Claire asked if she and Winter could join the caravan.

"Got room for two more?"

“Hmpf, right. There’s room for two more miss. Tell your friend that when he arrives we will escort you to meet out superior.” Said the commander.

Interacting: Claire ( ItcamefromtheVoid ) Bean ( Lord Moldoma )

​

Inside a dimly lit office bathroom, one that has seen better days given the grime and dirt on the floor and the general unkempt state of its stalls, a young woman stared at herself through a dirty mirror. She looked pale, and trembled ever so slightly. “F-fuck this… fuck it! I need this!” she muttered as she pulled out a small case from her back pocket. Opening the button and spreading its contents open revealed five small vials with a jet black liquid stored within each and a used syringe near them. “I have to… f-fucking have to!” she said before grabbing one of the vials.

In her office, the distinct voice of Moon Bot could be heard as he announced the end of a song and the start of a new one. “That was another classic folks, wasn’t it? Now, let me tell you something boys and girls… I’m a sucker for Euro-Rock!” As the host continued to speak on the airwaves, the young woman filled the syringe with the vial’s contents. Desperation marked her face, but was afraid of what was going to happen next.

She needed this. She knew that if she kept taking this shit it would be an end to her career… and yet, in the moment, she disregarded all care. “…so lets say ‘Hi’ to Skunk Anansie and shaka Ponk, because we all have someone or something we cannot take off our heads!”

​

Right as the song began to play, the women took a deep breath and buried the needle into her left eye – squeezing the contents of the vial downwards.

The syringe quickly emptied, and the women removed it before throwing it onto the ground below. She stared at her reflection, before black tears came running down. Her smile grew as her sclera became jet black, and her irises too. Backing away slowly into her office, she began to giggle like a child before grabbing her head in pain as she let out a grunt. “H-hurt… hurt me more!” she muttered before falling to the ground. A miasmic euphoria spread throughout her body, leading to her to cough up a thick, black liquid; and yet she did not stop, rather, she smiled and begged for more in between labored breaths.

Inside her mind she didn’t see the office. Instead, it was a hellish landscape, surrounded by people like her. Black tears and saliva fell down their faces like rivers, coating their clothes and bodies with black liquid. They laid upon each other, motionless, surrounding what appeared to be an onyx statue of a faceless woman. She approached it, and fell to her knees in front of it.

It moved, with its featureless face looking down upon her, and placed a hand gently to caress her cheek. Her touch felt like bliss – never let me go, goddess of the night, mother of the thousand orphans…
“You are disgusting, you know that right?” a voice pierced the air, snapping her back to reality as her eyes returned to normal. Her clothes were stained with black liquid in an embarrassing mess as a squatting man next to her, wearing a suit just like her, observed from above. He was obviously a mistfolk with his gas mask and glowing eyes.

​

“N-no… no no what the f-fuck did you do!?” the woman shouted angrily as she tried to get up, noticing that the mutant was holding a syringe of his own. “D-did you inject me with a stim!?”

He simply nodded in response, which brought out a las-pistol pointed straight at his face. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! I WAS SO… SO CLOSE!” she shouted again, her voice being heard across the entire building by now. But few reacted to it; after all, it was best to not bother “The Shadow”. She took off the safety with an audible click, panting heavily from a blinding rage.

“You really are losing it, aren’t you?” said the mistfolk agent, pushing the gun away with a finger.

“I… I was so close to hearing her again…” she responded, her eyes welling up with tears.

“Look, you can do this dumb shit tomorrow. Remember, we have to meet the suckers we’re sending down to Mexico.” Said the male as he got back up and straightened his suit.

“…suckers? Mexico…? Fuck… it’s today? God fucking damnit.” The lady muttered as she put the safety back on and holstered her gun. Her senses were starting to return, but she still felt like shit.

“From what I’ve seen, mostly wastelanders. One citizen but he also used to be a wastelander… not a huge loss if they all die on the way there to be honest.” Said the mistfolk agent as he walked towards the office window, opening the blinders to observe New Southport.

“Do you forget who we work for? You think I care for these people? The only reason we’re doing this in the first place is because of the damn inbred hicks of the South putting a maritime blockade. And we need those be-“

“Language.”

“…Mexicans… as our allies. Otherwise, we have fucking no-one.”

“So… what’s the plan to keep them in line?” asked the mistfolk agent while looking over his shoulder.

“I’ll attach an explosive on the mercenaries of the Dog Company and the other inmates… speaking of which, did we get all three?” asked the woman as she removed her suit jacket and shirt, since they were soiled now. Though her partner didn’t react whatsoever to this.

“You’ve got Morgan Carter and Callum Crane. I told them to put the terrorist back in the can. Too dangerous.” The mistfolk agent spoke, keeping his gaze to the window as the woman changed.

“Went over my orders again, huh?” she asked, annoyance laced in her tone. Though she didn’t get a response out of him. “Whatever, if the prisoners go rogue then their heads are gone. If the other caravanners go rogue, we order the prisoners to go and gun them down. Simple, isn’t it?”

The mistfolk agent nodded, before walking to the office door. “Well, come to the hanger when you’re ready. Already made the buzzcuts prep the civilian trucks.” He said before leaving the woman on her own. She looked back at her case containing the vials of “Black Goddess”, her fingers clenching the case tightly before walking out of her office. She was intent on seeing what the wasteland had to offer her.

 

[Lord Moldoma]

However, the commander quickly berated them as it didn’t seem aggressive nor threatening in the way it moved. “What the hell are you two doing? Settle down!” he shouted through gritted teeth before pointing to “Bubbah”. “You. Go see what she wants.” He ordered, which brought visible hesitation to the man’s face as he looked between his CO and the approaching Freak before gulping and making his way slowly over to her.

Terrified as he was, the message wasn't made clear enough. In consideration to the poor fellow's bladder-quenching fear. There were only a few kind of people in the world in the eyes of such a queer bird like the odd freak.

First, there were "bad people" people who wanted to hurt her or who wanted her to hurt people. Her father, mother, and her many, many brothers were all like that. And she remembered them all clearly. Her mother was a great big woman, no doubt half the weight of a texas longhorn, but perhaps even bigger than one would expect, due to the fact that she essentially had the physiological equivalence to the planet venus sitting in the core of her center of gravity. She had painstakingly birthed every single one of the children of their family, and when they last spoke, she had only probably stood up to go and leave what we back in Texas would call an "El diablo", somewhere in the general vicinity of one of the homestead's toilets. That woman's heart was black like tar, probably both literally and physically, though the freak girl was never sure of the literalness of that descriptor.

Then there was her father. He was another, big person, but his body was less like a balloon of volatile gas and caustic soup than it was a mountain of mismatched meat, covered in patches of scarred over tissue from where his musculature had hardened and overgrown from working himself like a bull. At least, until his daughter came of the age around 16 that is. He was very, very imposing. Nearly as tall as her at 7 feet, and not nearly as wide as his mother if not for the several hundred pounds of musculature he possessed. He looked like the bastard lovechild of Frankenstein's monster and Fernand the Cannibal. Considering he was a freak, that made sense.

Then there were her 8 brothers. 4 were Quadruplets, identical at that. Short, sniffly, and bereft of the core developmental nurture that could've had let them grow into the strong young freaks on the block like their father had hoped. They had the stature and physical constitution of Smeagol from lord of the rings. They were more than a few reasons why her parents didn't hate them, because if they worked together, they were at least a bit useful, and they had a keen eye for weapons. Be it sharp sticks, or bows and arrows they made themselves. She didn't actually hate her brothers the way she hated her father and mother, but that's because they were always out hunting for lonely wastelanders to rob/kill/eat, she still, of course, thought they were needlessly violent. There names were as interchangable as the cyllinders of a 6 shooter. Ike, Mike, Pike, and Spike.

There was Ned, Ned was born almost normal, if extremely ugly, but over time, he had gradually gotten hairier and hairier. to the point where he wasn't a nice persian rug, he was the entire fucking carpet factory. Ned was particularly abusive to his sister. She had memories of where he would force her to lie down in the living room and would scrape his long, rough brown hairs against her back, giving her carpet burn, only accentuated by the oily nature of his hairs, since no-one was ever allowed to to take a bath except her mother, who washed herself with a rag on a stick, and demanded the help of the whole family to get her fat greasy ass into a washbasin.

Ram was next. He wasn't physically abusive, so much as he was sexually abusive. He Had a slack jaw, and a horribly slouched spine, he had teeth like a goat, so they called him Ram. She'd rather not think about what Ram did to her.

Beaugard was the brother she never got to know, he ran away years before she was even born. Her mother and father told her that he was a coward who betrayed their family. if that was the case, she wanted to give Beaugard a great big hug.

Finally, there was tony.. Tony was... All of the above. Violent, sexually charged, slack jawed, 7 feet tall and with big big feet. In Texas, we have a saying about the size of a man's shoes. But since none of them wore any more shoes than the callouses on their feet, we'll say that that doesn't apply here. She hated Tony more than anyone. Tony wasn't just born into a life of hate and despair, he was born into a life of hate and despair... And he liked it that way. He wanted to destroy anything that made his sister happy. If it weren't for his father seeing use in putting her to work, the freak girl would've found her legs chained up in a dripping basement, and forced to eat rats and insects to survive.

They weren't the only ones that wanted to hurt her. There were others. She remember the Bandito Boys of Waco county. Who ran a train on her because she never seemed to get pregnant (she couldn't, of course, being genetically sterile)(More on that later.) Max Millhouse, the mayor of New Little Rock, who had her chained up and displayed outside the william J-clinton library for people to throw stones at, holding quite the emotional sway over them through the power of the fear of the unknown, and the respect of "The voice of the one true god." Only for her, like prometheus, to regenerate by the next day. She still had sunburns from never getting to go inside. Well, that was until she was sold off to a "collector of peculiar things." One of the old world billionaires who had survived in a vault with his fortune and travelled with a band of mercenaries, going about his eccentric businesses as usual.

Second, there were people who were afraid of her. Fear Even without the events of ever so many years ago, I think man would still be a creature that fears the dark. He doesn't face that fear, he averts his eyes from it and acts as if he doesn't have any memories of his past. But, those years were both a short time and yet, a long time. Man's fear has withered. And even time itself tries to wither the desire to know the truth. Is it a crime to try and learn the truth? Is it a sin to search for those things which you fear. Man's purpose in this world is knowledge, and the dissemination of it. Fear... It is something vital to us puny creatures. The instant man stop fearing is the instant the species reaches a dead end, only to sink to pitable lows, only to sit and wait apathetically for extinction. Humans who lose the ability to think become creatures whose existence has no value.

The people of Auckland county treated her like the goddamn bigfoot. Her feet are big, but she was not hairy. The people of Louisiana assumed her to be some sort of wendigo. Her claws were long, but she was no cannibal. Not directly anyway. It didn't help her that she wore a shroud that made her look like the mothman, so I'm sure if she had ended up in Ohio... Well.. Actually, there's nothing wrong with Ohio. Except the snow and the rain. If you leave to Cleaveland you best be ready for that snow and rain because it had become so uncharacteristically prevalent after the end of the world that they only really only saw the sun almost 3 times a year.

The final group, who she assumed every new face could be, and gave the benefit of the doubt of, was a person that was nice to her. Omar Patravarti, the kind old man who had originally found her when she was working in the fields, and despite only speaking a little english, had taken her in and absconded away to get her somewhere safe away from her family, only to be killed after 6 weeks, when the Bandito Boys ravaged the town he lived in. Jillian Chambers, the little girl who had never thrown stones at her in Little Rock, and had even brought her real food on occasion. And the kind hunter, who realized the human in her skin and helped her get the hell out of Auckland, with the promise she'd never return. People who she knew she'd never get to thank, for obvious reasons.

---

But no, she was never assuming that people were scared of her until they said so. When the soldier walked up, she would've greeted him with open arms. If she weren't scared of accidently stabbing him with her claws.

“U-uh… miss?” the soldier muttered as he offered a form to the mutant. “…you, uh, here to volunteer in a mission?” he then asked, his hand trembling from being so close to the giant thing in front of him.

"Indeed I am." She responded. "Indubtidedly." She spoke, her broken english seemingly almost cute. She had a sing-song voice that perfectly showcased a tongue untarnished by cannibalism, and a throat unharmed by smoke nor smog. Her arms slid out slowly from her cloak, and she gingerly took the form, looking over it, briefly reading it, and signing it where needed, checking any boxes that she understood and drawing a frowny face next to any thing that she didn't understand . She remembered signing these before. They were a thing that she had been walked through during her time with mister Omar. She knew how to write with her horrible-claw-like fingers, sort of like how a disabled person would. Even then though, her signature was very odd. It was a strange symbol, custom and unique only to her. It looked almost indian, or maybe japanese, if not alien entirely.

 

[ItcamefromtheVoid]

“Hmpf, right. There’s room for two more miss. Tell your friend that when he arrives we will escort you to meet out superior.” Said the commander.

Claire nods to the commander. Winter approaches shortly after with their bounty for the ones they had brought in, giving Claire her cut of the payment. "Did you secure us a place on the job?" He asked.

"Of course I did. Commander is going to escort us to the superior. We're just waiting for you, old man." She chuckled.
Winter gave her a sarcastic side eye with undertones that said she should watch her mouth. Winter and Claire stood by waiting to meet the superior that would be at the spearhead of the operation that would have them and a colorful group of others. It seemed there were many who wanted to get in on the job. Which made Claire more on guard than she usually was. She didn't trust anyone human or otherwise unless they were part of their small group and even then it would be a matter of time for her to trust someone who was a fresh face on the team.

But Claire would have to figure out a way to deal with it, as the job was an open contract, meaning anyone. Including criminals could take the job. There must have been some clear circumstances that allowed them to join in the caravan. This would have put her even more on guard than usual. So many unfamiliar faces. In fact, of all the people who seemed to have come for the job in question. Claire and Winter seemed to be the only ones outside of the MPs that looked the part of military personnel. Which didn't seem odd in the least. Escort jobs often attracted different souls from the wasteland to do jobs of getting from point A to point B. Winter would go to their truck and lock everything up nice and tight to keep any passersby from trying to steal their belongings. The last thing he needed was Claire going on a rampage, hunting down her rifle.

"You think we are going to bring the truck?" Claire asked as she looked over her shoulder. She always kept her pistol at her side, at least in case she needed to shoot someone or get herself out of trouble. Winter usually did the same. She couldn't imagine finding anyone in this day and age without a weapon of some sort. Be it a bodily integration or external one, they will have something to inflict harm. Claire slowly approached the girl, who had the singsong voice as she took a form from one of the MPs. She kept her distance but was curious what she was filling out and why Winter and herself didn't get handed the same form.

"Aitan, is that you?" Winter's gruff voice came from behind another person he thinks he recognizes as an old friend, but he couldn't be sure until he saw their face. Or at the least, given some similar recognition. The two wasteland mercenaries parted ways slightly while they waited for the MPs to escort them to the chaperone job boss.

 

[dikdik]

TW: Mild suicidal ideation throughout. Substance abuse/cravings at the end of the post.

Even with the particular lack of chaotic eruption coming from the sssclicking of that stupid child’s gun, Aitan’s body still twitched on edge, searching for escape options as the proverbial dust laid itself to rest back on the slimy fucking ground. He could still all but feel the sludge persist on the bottom of his boot, though he was almost convinced he had gotten it all off. Half of his cells wanted to sit on the fruit crate, pretend he never signed those papers, and watch whatever ragtag group of morons this was wander off into the sunset. The other half knew he wasn’t good for a goddamned thing. Except for when he consented via paperwork. He was stuck, he supposed. Lest he ignore his own dignity and break that stupid fucking promise. Stupid fucking signatures being legally fucking binding. Fuck.

And then he remembered he’d just burned a bakery to the ground, still had the soot staining his hands, which he promptly swiped against his black pants, just in case, and he’d borderline desperately needed to get out of Southport before anyone could trace the arson back to him. And he almost wished they’d be quicker about it and just fucking shoot him already-

Having slipped from his mouth somewhere in the inbetween, the mostly unsucked ciga-butt he’d most recently lit fizzed out in the crud he’d tried to get away from. No wonder I’m unhinged. Fuck. How’d he not notice that immediately?

Maybe it was the kids. They always did that to him, made him feel all creaky and bothered. They just seemed so fucking useless and simultaneously fucking horrifying. Why’d, how’d they end up here anyways? He’d have to just start ignoring them. Half-begging the wind to swipe away his own breath yet again, he chose to start migrating slowly away from his fruit crates, making certain to stare the MP standing by them straight in the eyes as he dug around his five pockets until his hand landed on his thigh, finding his most accessible ciga-butt stash, ripping one out of the plastic baggie, lighting it up. He breathed deep, inhaling the sweetness, huffing it hastily out his nose, waiting to break eye contact until he was having trouble focusing on the fucking Statie’s stupid fucking face anyways.

Upon his migration closer to the center of the group, something he thought might help him feel more committed to this job, which it didn’t and there was some regret he’d have to ignore- Why? Upon his migration closer to the center of the group, he felt some inhuman set of eyes find him. He called it Seventh Sense. Sixth was finding ciga-butts anywhere and everywhere, somehow never running out, no matter how many he smoked. The Seventh Sense only worked about 10% of the time it should've, but this time it did.

And Seventh was accompanied by a grinding, grating voice addressing him by name. And no one ever fucking said his name. Because no one ever knew it. Not even the baker he’d lived above for years and left smoldering to ashes under the wreckage of his-

Aitan whipped his head around a bit quicker than he’d have like, sucking in another breath full of smoke all the way into the deepest part of his lungs and fucking shit who was that? The behemoth of a Green Man knew him by name and all he could gather enough to feign memory were a few pictures swirling in his head: Shadow, splattered and spurting blood across the floor or the wall or something, a hell of a lot of money with that crimson all over it, and the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the side of his head by a hand he could neither see nor feel.

“Hey, fella?” Aitan croaked and his stained hand found his hair, struggling its way through the white tangles around his ear, as the cigarette stuck itself to the drying spot it craved on his bottom lip. Tan squared his body up with Phantom, looking up to find the eyes set deep in his face. Aitan slurped at the cigarette, holding his breath long enough that when he let it out, the usual whisps of smoke were invisible. It felt like they stuck to his insides. And he found himself with a sudden, deep and craving urge for Her. He fucking missed Her. He loved Her. And She was the closest thing he’d ever felt to being wanted or needed. And even She could exist without him. And he felt useless and aimless once again.

Tracing his eyes across the face, his heaviness not withholding, “Vaguely, Winter. The fuck are you doing here?”

 

[Tarot of Death]

Rebirth, Change, and Death.
Hugo

Dear Juleen, I Remember

With his eyes shut, raisins mashing in between his teeth, Hugo envisioned his world before. Lifetimes ago and lived, moderately. He was just a soldier with a world to conquer and a man with plenty dreams. Hopes, aspirations, maybe a wife later, kids were never a for sure for him. He was the tip of the spear of life and the military. Comparing it to now would be more akin to comparing reality with a nightmare than anything. His life now, his attitude and mental space, all would be something Hugo could not comprehend in his docile and unaffected mind of the years before. Scars so deep they could cut the warps of reality and bend the perception of the universe. He lived far too long, he has seen far too much. His mental library and existence was in the Alexandria level of depth and capability.

His mind opened sights and horrors he had wished not to see at this time, the feeling of the dried, aged, grapes no longer bringing council to his aged mind. He opened his eyes and the world in front of him was not one he walked into just moments ago. There were no contractors of death, weapons of war, soldiers in uniform patrolling perimeters. It was just his little home in the rubble of society. His town of Mistfolk, his wife laying besides him in their makeshift bed, a small tuna can clad candle blown out from their start of their rest. It all was real to Hugo, the world he found himself in was indistinguishable, it was, there. He couldn't tell if what he had been living through for so long was just a dream, some nightmare that he had been far too deep into. Looking over to Juleen, he shook her shoulder and woke his wife awake, her groggily inquiring about his incessant pushing.
"What? What Hugo? It's so late."

Hugo did not truly know how to respond, stuttering for a moment before embracing his wife tightly and shedding a momentary tear that fell onto the mattress. He couldn't push any words out of his mouth for a couple minutes but was forced when a returned embrace turned into concern from Juleen, her once again asking what was happening to Hugo.
"I just, missed you Juleen. I can't explain it but I just missed you. You have been gone for so long. I remember the world you opened up to me when all was lost and I just, can't forget it."

Juleen smiled and hugged her husband once more smiling and looking compassionately to him. She felt every emotion her other half expressed, if not more so. He truly was an amazing person to her and something she could not explain. A butterfly in a barren field, a flower in a wildfire, a partner in the apocalypse. They were something she could never be able to replicate and that scared but also emboldened her. They were meant to be and it was never to be faltered by anything this horrid world could throw at them. I mean, it already threw countless nukes at them, what could be worse? They were unstoppable together, workhorses of the apocalypse and immortals of post-humanity. In their creation they lived and thrived. But it would not lost, they were not unstoppable, and the world was not meant to be.

Hugo reeled back from the hug to observe his wife once more to see her smiling, but not as before. Her face was covered in blood soaked sand, a bullet wound piercing her forehead, the view through it horrifying Hugo. His wife still talked on, repeatedly asking what was wrong, her voice being more and more warped as she went on. The blood dripped with bits of brain matter slowly sliding with each motion of her jaw and voice. The room they were once in turned into the open road of bodies and bullet casings. The dust whistled by as the wind softly blew up all it could, some sticking to the face of the still talking corpse of Juleen. The pile of bodies were in the background behind her, Hugo standing in front of her. He looked down to see his boots covered in blood, his hands, his sleeves, and just by feeling, his face he was sure. He was covered in the blood of those he had killed and had seen killed. It stunk of a wet iron, his nostrils filled with the stench. He could not think for a moment, he was in shock. He could not comprehend what has happened and what is happening, it was all overbearing for Hugo's mind, and in that, he snapped back to reality as a quick tug on his leg shocked him to reality.

The lot full of contractors and military alike. Finding what tugged at his leg, he saw some contractor dressed in eerily familiar clothing standing there, looking to him like he was a rabid dog. Hugo had a pissed off look on his face and yelled at the man, the commotion loud enough to attract plenty of attention.
"What's your problem you fucking meat bag?! Keep moving!"

Hugo was pissed, and before his target could respond, he recognized why his uniform was eerily familiar. It was the same as one of the people who murdered his people, his home, his wife. Without thought, he reached for his holstered Beretta and was prepared to draw on the man until Hugo took a second look to him and saw the uniform and look was gone. It was just some innocent contractor, his face pale and quickly adverting. The man walked away as Hugo tried to handle what just happened to him. He clipped his holster back and he sat there a moment, shocked in his delirium. Was he losing it? Was he beginning to find out what the stretches of extreme age do to the mind? The world he just, imagined, no, lived through, was not real. At least not anymore. He was wide eyed and confused, searching his hands for blood or scars or something to show he was not just imagining it. He felt as if his entire reality was slipping away, and for what reason he did not know.

coded by Mister Glass

 

[ItcamefromtheVoid]

“Vaguely, Winter. The fuck are you doing here?”

Winter chuckled when Aitan had vaguely remembered their time together. "Turning in the latest job and getting on the Caravan Escort group." It seemed he was just as spaced out as before they had parted ways all those years ago. When Espinosa and Kelso had still been alive and Winter was just getting recruited. Perhaps that was for the best, when they picked him over Aitan. Aitan seemed bitter over their decision. Footsteps approached from behind him.

"Jesus from Columbia, what sweet hell did you drag this slum rat from?" Claire's voice cut through their conversation like a machete. "He looks like he hasn't had a decent night's sleep his entire fuckin' life." She said. Her eyes were as empty as Aitan's without bags under her eyes that could store a week's worth of rations and fuel in them. She didn't look at him as another person or even a threat. But her eyes sized him up like a wolf getting ready to pounce. "Who the fuck are you?" She asked Aitan crossing her arms standing next to Winter. She knows he's like her and the scowl on her face didn't like him one bit. If Aitan wasn't offended, Winter was for him as her words sunk into their past like knives being stuck into a dead body, adding insult to injury.

"Claire, what have I told you about talking to other people?" Winter growled keeping every fiber in his being from putting her in her place as his subordinate.

"That would apply if this were a person, but he's a fuckin' slum rat, so it doesn't matter." She reiterated her antipathy towards Aitan. But what might have surprised him the most? While Winter's partner wasn't unhinged, she was definitely a stone faced killer. Just like Aitan, which is why she was being so odious.

 

[dikdik]

Losing himself in the unusual searing in his lungs, Aitan noticed the heat licking at his lower lip as his ciga-butt became suddenly short and useless. He dropped the unfiltered end of the thing out of his mouth, having to wiggle his lips to coerce it into releasing its death grip on the dry patch of his mouth. He started loathing those little dry patches. Not a while ago, not even recently, but in this exact moment. He realized just how bothersome they were, especially since he’d been forgetting to drop the ciga-butt ends out of his teeth before they felt hot on that same little spot for a while now. Probably a raw spot. Maybe blister.

Aitan’s hand lingered by his hip for a moment, squiggling its fingers before finding its intent and purpose: chasing the seam of his pants, the ones that hugged his waist just a little too tight- with his synched belt, barely tight enough to leave thin red trails on his hip bones, where they rested.

And the deep urge for Her persisted.

He hated when his pants were too tight. It gave him an itch, a claustrophobia. Only felt it when he noticed and he only noticed when he needed Her.

Green Man’s chuckle wrought more Memory than Aitan wanted to acknowledge. His hand found the vertical zipper in the middle thigh of his right pants leg’s outer seam and snagged the tab, peeling it downwards. The response Winter slapped back revolted him, tugged at him. The tab came down and unrolling in his hands a split later were the ciga-butts and a lighter. A cold one found his lips and he dragged through it, lighting it and finding himself tempted to gesture an offer at Winter-

Aitan’s eyes narrowed to slits as some gallivanting, tiny, beady-eyed mouse snapped from around the Phantom, hurling an insult at him. Causing him to redact his almost-offer of a cigarette to Winter. Fucking bitch had to ruin the one time he almost felt some semblance of human emotion.

“I haven’t had a decent-” Fucking forget this. Useless garbage wasting his oxygen. He slurped in another drag off his raging ciga-butt. This one settled somewhere as deep as his feet and never found its way into the light again. Fuck. Making me waste this perfectly satisfactory- She was so tiny. How the hell did she find enough piss and vinegar in her entire body to come up with “slum rat”?

Aitan’s hand stuffed with plastic-wrapped ciga-butts found its way back into his pocket, zipping it closed and tip-tapping it with his index finger, just making sure they wouldn’t be going anywhere. His gray, bloodshot eyes examined hers as they traced up and down his body.

This little Witch felt venomous.

“Ask Winter.” Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck’re you?

Best not to react, not to react. Don’t feed into the bullshit!

Though Aitan seethed, Winter seethed right back at her in some bizarre display of dominance. He’d let Winter handle whatever this was. That was the smart thing. And he needed to be smart right now. He needed to be real smart right now. But the only thing he could think about was the twitch in his hand that wouldn’t go away and the aching in the back of his skull he couldn’t snag a reason for.

Aitan wasn’t a slum rat, but he sure as fuck wasn’t a person either. He admitted the mousey little Witch was right on that one.

Aitan’s vision found itself fading a bit, like right before he caught himself in a daydream. He edged at the blur but found himself tracing his gaze across Winter, over him, down the Witch, and across Winter again. He shifted weight towards his left leg, sinking in the heaviness of his body. The one that ushered him into a sleepless sleep. Or the one that found the gun?

The one that found the gun.

He never twitched, moved.

He just found it.

Felt good to remember where it was.

And he found himself meandering his thoughts for some kind of ground. And he found himself being drawn to the Shadows again, but it had already been a good long while since they found him last, and he wasn’t quite sure why they wouldn’t just leave him alone already, but then again-

What was the point of it all?

“That was cold, you Witch.”

Of Resistance?

 

[ItcamefromtheVoid]

The way he looked at her, compared to winter, it was like basking in sunlight. Glorious and satisfying. But the sneer on her face lead to her knowing more than she let anyone know. "Winter? Who the fuck is this slum rat?" Claire didn't take her eyes off Aitan. She knew to watch him because he was likely to draw if she agitated him enough. She wanted that... A reason, for any reason. Didn't matter. She studied him like an object under a microscope and knows she could plug him with some lead and talk her way out of the rest. Just look at the Slum Rat. He only needed a nudge to set him off. She was that nudge and damned if she didn't enjoy that feeling.

"Claire, this is Aitan. I've done a couple of jobs with him." Winter said with a deadpan face-palm expression. He knew what she was doing. It was typical of her attitude and for the life of him. He can't understand why she was so standoffish. That wasn't true. Since she was younger when he first encountered her. He knew there was something different about Claire. When he first started letting her make kills, she didn't feel a thing. She actually wanted to go out more. For the last decade, she had been watching over him as a sniper he trained closely. A girl he raised was always a killer. A hair-trigger. He just needed to aim.

Witch? Come now, you can do better than that vermin. The Malicious intent that radiated from her, this wicked witch was deranged and wanting to kill. She ground her teeth in anticipation. Reach for it, please. His hair, the soot still left in his hands, had been getting smeared into his hair changing the shade. "You know what gives you away the most?" Claire focused on Aitan, a lioness ready to pounce. Was it jealousy? No... It was territorial. "Your clothes..." she said coldly as her face completely changed. Once a mundane casual expression of disdain twisted in to a pin-eyed deadpan with icy words. "Aitan..." using his name... She knows. "Most people get too enthralled with their own shit to notice. But I noticed. So do us and yourself a favor and go back to the dingy shit pile you crawled out of."

"I'm so glad your standards have gotten higher since then. I want a drink. Let's leave this slum rat to tweak on his own." Claire grabbed Winter's arm and drug him away. Her face had returned to the same resting bitch face she had in the beginning before she fucked wanted to fuck with the Vermin's head. Though he didn't fight Claire, when she pulled him away, he reluctantly went along with her. She looked over her shoulder with piercing eyes. Knowing eyes. She knows something but isn't telling. She just wants to make him think about what she knew. Squirm Slum Rat... Claire turned her head away from him. Then her eyes would turn back to watch what was in front of her. Surveying the people shortly as they moved towards the back of the group and their truck.

"Break out the good stuff, Winter. Today we met someone I don't like." Claire said colder than usual. Something irked her about that slum rat. She should have shot him dead. It would be easy to explain her actions. But she had to pick her moment, and the lioness set her sights on her prey. He wasn't the same as the typical sheep that she hunted. No. This was a predator and would require essential skills to murder. But the hunt was on and she felt her blood rush planning to kill Aitan as she stared into the horizon.

"You don't like anyone." Winter looked at her with a raised brow. Was she talking about Aitan?

"Not true. I like some people when they are tolerable." Meaning when they were sheep. Slum Rat is a wolf.

"You Just met him!" It surprised Winter to see that she had voiced her dislike towards someone. Usually, she just stays quiet or she insults them ruthlessly. "How the hell do you know you don't like him?" Winter pulled out a canteen. The liquid sloshed around inside, but it didn't contain water. Rather some form of alcohol, perhaps even fuel. Winter passed it to her.

"Because that slum rat and I are the same." Claire stared Winter dead in the eyes and the emptiness in her was apparent. There was nothing, a stare that made him shiver every time. She took the canteen and drained a large portion, enjoying the burn that she felt warm in her belly. Then she passed it back to Winter. For a small human girl, she was strange. She didn't miss her parents. Even at a young age, she understood what death was and often had to hide the small animals she eviscerated from the others. The sinister laugh when she makes a kill she particularly enjoys. He couldn't see the similarities between the two of them. Perhaps it was something he would have to take at her word. He did definitely notice a difference in her mood at the truck after meeting Aitan. But there was something off about what she said that he couldn't get off his mind. This only enforced her words, as it seemed he was more focused on seeing Aitan than actually looking at him. Perhaps she was just in one of her foul moods.

 

[joshuadim]

"LADIES, GENTS, AND EVERYONE IN BETWEEN!” the MP commanding officer then shouted, his voice breaking through the commotion of the front gates to garner everyone’s attention. “Board the trucks for a ride through the city. We’ll be introducing you to your job. Feel free to take a look around our fine urban wonders while we get to our destination.” He waved everyone on as a director towards the back end of the two trucks that had pulled up. They showed signs of weathering and use, but their engines remained proud and loud even on idle – signalling that there was combustible life in their pistons.

Once everyone climbed aboard either of the vehicles, a few of the MPs hung on the sides as additional escort before the CO gave a hard knock on the metal. With the signal given, the machine beasts roared to life and began to drive the new recruits to their destination. New Southport was, save for the burnt out fire in the distance, in good condition for its homes and buildings. Many suitable residencies lined the sides of the main road with all matter of smaller shops in between, which in turn was overshadowed by the all-important docks.

As the city’s main employer, most of the workers on the streets were visibly either fishermen with rods and nets being brought towards their trawlers, or laborers in their overalls dealing with cargo and other roles. A few ancient and defunct cranes remained upright as relics to a bygone era, but also as a signature “landmark” for the city itself. The workers would also send looks towards the passing trucks, seeing the strange and various newcomers with looks of either confusion, curiosity, or concern.

But what stood out as the newcomers were driven through the city were the corpses of many Fishmen littered throughout, with some piles being prepared for disposal in certain areas. Morbid as the sight was, the stench was even worse as some were being gutted for their insides by some of the fishermen to be used for bait on their lines. Driving by, gusts of odor from the dead creatures hit everyone to varying degrees – with those more sensitive becoming more queasy. One of the MPs looked as though he wanted to puke as he quickly pulled out a handkerchief to try to cover his nose.

“Damn fishmen crawled out of the waters and tried a raid. As you can see, they failed.” The MP CO announced loudly over the rumble of the truck engines. “Maybe one day they’ll learn not to mess with us. But I doubt their pea-brains can even process that!”

Shortly thereafter, the trucks came to a stop at the front of a heavily fortified gateway. The military base of New Southport was bustling with activity as guards remained on duty. They were still wary given recent events but seeing the MP commanding officer among this escorted rabble put them somewhat more at ease. On disembarking, the CO then directed a few inspectors to check everyone as a routine precaution – going over everyone’s belongings one by one. The weapons were inspected, but not confiscated as some might have feared; perhaps due to the overwhelming firepower of the military personnel on display providing a form of deterrence to any sort of troublemaking.

“Keep your weapons holstered at all times.” One of them spoke with a commanding tone, “You will not get a second warning.”

With a wave of the hand by the CO, the guard booth buzzed the group in as the gates slowly opened to allow entry onto the base proper. “Alright, follow me. Don’t go dawdling about, or we just might have to shoot you after all.” He said, which prompted a few chuckles from the other MPs from his morbid joke. As they approached what appeared to be a derilect hanger covered in rust, the sight of two, suit wearing agents standing in front of a rusted Chevrolet Nova and a large truck packed to the brim with supplies greeted them. “Took them fucking long enough.” Agent Song muttered to her compatriot as she eyed the others from under her shades. They served both a cosmetic use as well as practical – to hide the effects of her use of the Black Goddess. “Let’s just get this shit over with.”

Agent Black in the meantime appeared more stoic than his more agitated counterpart, though it was hard to determine from under his mask as a mistborn. And so he greeted the group as they walked into the hanger with their accompanying escorts by immediately getting into it: “I’m Agent Black. This is my partner, Agent Song.” He spoke, lazily motioning a hand towards the woman before continuing. “This job you’ve signed onto or have been drafted into is simple: we have a truckload of supplies that we need delivering to the Mexican Cities.”

He pointed over towards the truck and its strapped down cargo – enough had been packed on board to slightly bend the suspension downwards due to the weight. This meant that this was a large amount of material that had to be delivered. “It’s a piece of shit, to be frank. But the engine is practically mint. So it will go where it needs to.” He then turned his attention towards the items of interest aboard the vehicle: “Inside there is a box with a tracking device. Do not open it. Do not attempt to remove it. Do not try to disable it. We will know.” Agent Black spoke bluntly, which then prompted a scoff from his partner.

“Don’t try any shit. OR I will ensure an ungodly fucking firestorm is sent upon you.” Agent Song spoke up with a scowl, before looking over towards Morgan and the other prisoners. “Your explosive collars are to keep you in line and follow orders like the good little mutts you are. Act up, and your brains paint the surrounding area – so don’t even think about trying a great escape.”

She then wiped her nose and huffed: “You are all expendable. So don’t think you can somehow cheap out on this. Your lives do not matter.”

Agent Black remained quiet for a moment before shrugging: “Any questions?”

Interacting: Boogey, Bonney & Fang ( AriAriAbabwa SavannahSmiles ), Slade ( Breadman ), Morgan ( Infab ), Lucero & Marisol ( BriiAngelic ), Dustin ( Roda the Red ), Betsy ( Lost Echo ), Aitan ( dikdik ), KAZ & Runt ( joshuadim ), Artemis ( SavannahSmiles ), Callum ( Sistros ), Cris Topher ( Azurian Dream ), Bean ( Lord Moldoma )

 

[Infab]

Fuckin' finally. We're moving.

Morgan did as instructed, boarding the truck with the others whom had been chained up with her and taking her seat. She had already seen a good chunk of the city the few days and nights before, but the corpses of fishmen was new to her. Maybe that was what the explosions and such were about earlier?

Fishmen back home in LA were a bit of a rarity. Mainly because nine-tenths of LA shot at them the moment they crawled out of the water, Morgan included. She chuckled as the smell hit most of them, watching some of their faces turn greenish and sickly. She had grown used to the smell. Hell, she had grown used to a lot of things over her lifetime as well as over the past six months.

Eventually, they reached and entered the military base. "Shit, this reminds me of the bases back in Cali." she muttered, recalling some of the old installations that the Free Republic of California was prone to capturing and using. Fuckheads trying to recreate old California, but with their own little twists. She smirked at the thought. Like that would ever happen.

Soon, they were asked to get out of the trucks. And then, they were searched. As one of the guards came near Morgan, she grinned and held her chained hands overhead. "Don't get too grabby, now, pretty boy." she said softly, "I might take it personally."

It wierded the guard out, and forced him to step back for a female guard to step over to do the job. "Aww! No balls." she muttered, making a sad face for the male guard to see before giggling. Once she had been searched, they moved on down the line until everyone had been thoroughly examined. Then, they were lead away. On through the gates onto the base proper and towards some old, rusted hangar.

Inside, a Chevy Nova and a beat up truck. The Nova caught her eye. Faith would have loved to get her hands on that. Fix it up, new coat of paint, and it'd look fine as hell. Morgan smirked at the thought, before glancing to the two near it.

Suits. CIA, clearly. She had seen far too many movies where that became the schtick for government agents. Black suits, shades, mysterious look about them. Probably packing a pistol or an SMG somewhere on their person. One seemed to be a mistborn, judging from his mask. The other was high off her ass, or was coming down.

Morgan knew that type. Way too well.

The two agents spoke, explaining the job they'd be doing. They also referenced the collars that the chained up group was wearing. Including Morgan herself. Yeah, yeah, I know the deal. I've used these things myself on a few jackasses, too. It was fun to watch them go off when idiots tried to remove them or run too far away from the guy with the detonator. She also knew how to remove them, but these seemed of a different make than the ones they had back in LA. She didn't want to risk it.

This 'Agent Song' only confirmed Morgan's thoughts about being drugged up, based on her mannerisms and how she spoke compared to 'Agent Black'. Morgan wanted to be a smartass so badly, but since she had a bomb around her neck, she had to hold her comments in. Instead, she opted to simple questions.

Morgan raised her hand, and waited till Agent Black looked in her direction. "Can I get my things back?" she asked, "I'll do whatever it is I'm told to, especially since you can pop my head off like a cork, but I work best with my own gear."

 

[joshuadim]

R U N T
​

Runt climbed aboard one of the trucks alongside the others, albeit with some hesitation due to previous tensions, and leaned back in his seat. The open air allowed for a good view of the city as they drove through it, though it also exposed everyone to the rankness of dead fishmen. He was lucky to be used to worse smells, as he simply was able to ignore it as they drove past the piles of corpses and towards their next destination. They were allowed to retain their weapons, those who had them, so long as they kept them holstered - which was fine by the former raider as his double-barrel was more likely to blowback on him anyway.

On approach to the two suits, his interest was more towards the vehicles than the presence of the agents as he admired the Chevy Nova and looked on at the truck to see just how beaten up it was. Though, according to Agent Black, the engine was supposed to be in near mint condition which provided some hope. The other parts, however, were all up in the air as to their reliability. In turn, this gave Runt a job to do: "I'm a mechanic, I can look after the truck in case any of the other parts go to shit." he commented as he stepped over closer to its front. He ran a few fingers across its tattered surface before nodding.

"I can work with this, I think. Are there any spare parts we can take with us just in case?"

 

[Lord Moldoma]

On disembarking, the CO then directed a few inspectors to check everyone as a routine precaution – going over everyone’s belongings one by one. The weapons were inspected, but not confiscated as some might have feared; perhaps due to the overwhelming firepower of the military personnel on display providing a form of deterrence to any sort of troublemaking.

Frisking Bean was easier said than done. Not that she had any problems with authority, in fact, she was glad to open up her coat and hand over her travelling bag. but her body was nearly 10 feet tall (9'9''), searching her wasn't exactly an easy task for the inspector who was only a measily 6'00'' feet.

"You don't have any.. Extra skin pockets right?" The inspector asked, having taken to the easiest solution, of having Bean stand next to the truck while he looked her over, using the platform in the back as a sort of makeshift stepstool/ladder.

"No, I don't have any funny pockets, mister." Bean says. "Why do you ask?" She tilts her head. "Do people here normally have extra skin pockets?"

"Well... I don't exactly know if they can, but, I just thought I'd check, I'm not really familiar with freaks that're willing to talk or be patted down without serious compulsion." The man tells bean, clearly showing some small experience with the more feral or violent freaks, but none of the sort with any mutants who'd be willing to set down their weapons and submit for an inspection with such a welcoming demeanor. "Makes a man kinda nervous that you'd be some kinda brainy freak who plays innocent. But.. Judging from the fact that you haven't got anything more than a bag of crudely stitched clothes and a children's plush makes me think you're either completely genuine or so dedicated to the role that you won't be an issue until I can't be blamed for it anymore." The inspector said. "Ah, but I'm probably just a bit intimidated. I'm not used to a lot of women that are much taller than I am."

"There's no reason to be scared mister! I don't like hurting people! My long arms are better for hugs is all!" Bean says.

"Yeah... Sure thing... Anyway, nothin' on you so, while I'd love to stay and chat, I've got other 'volunteers' to inspect..." The guard says, leaving Bean to her own devices with the rest of the volunteer group.

"Okay! bye bye mister!" Bean waved excitedly,

 

[Breadman]

"Don't any of you even think of separating me from him for too long." Slade dismounted and patted his horse. The stubborn mule brain inside will follow the truck anyway. "Bastard will kick you harder than a mutant can hit you."

The grizzly scene of hanged fishmen didn't phase the ghoul. In fact he was surprised they were this industrive with the carcasses. Once they met their CIA contacts however, he could feel his skin crawl.

I’m Agent Black. This is my partner, Agent Song.

"Dear god, they can't even get their codename synergy in order." The ghoul bared his teeth in mock shock "No wonder you're looking for our help." He rolled his eyes as they made their threats and spoke down to the prisoners. "I don't think you need to remind them how bomb collars work. We're lucky they can read, but they're not that dumb." Normal spooks. Still think they have control even as the world went to hell. He had a few run ins during his travels. Always some cloak and dagger scheme. But these were different. They were more hands on. They either absolutely sucked at this or were pretending to keep a cover. Those 'supplies' were probably a nuke or something. This pay better be good.

Any questions?

"Yes. Are you telling us the full instructions or are you withholding several clauses and surprise changes you can pull down the line? I don't mean to undermine your authority, what little there is in the shit end of nowhere, but your kind think several steps ahead and then put your foot (us) in a beartrap because you forgot what step two was."

 

[joshuadim]

"Can I get my things back?" she asked, "I'll do whatever it is I'm told to, especially since you can pop my head off like a cork, but I work best with my own gear."

"I can work with this, I think. Are there any spare parts we can take with us just in case?"

"You'll get it back once you get on the road." Agent Black stated bluntly to the LA Raider, "Not taking any chances with you causing a ruckus until you're out of sight and mind." He then turned towards Runt and shook his head: "No spare parts. But the engine is top of the line. It will work all the way to Mexico, as advertised." Song in the meantime watched from under her shades as Bean went about talking to one of the MPs, with her statement on her arms being for 'hugging' ringing out the most to her. She rolled her eyes and leaned over to Black: "Freaks are nothing but bad news for this." she muttered quietly, "Don't like this shit one bit."

Black quickly whispered back: "We get what we get for this. They'll probably die anyway."

But it was when Slade spoke up that Agent Black grew visibly annoyed for the first time - more so than Song - as he was all business. "Listen, mutie John Wayne, this job is meant to be extremely simple so that even the most rad-brained moron east of the Mississippi could understand." This brought out a snicker from Song. "We would do this ourselves, but as you saw traveling through here that the Fishmen attacks have been rather severe. Enough so to damage many of our transport vessels. And we can't just lead a convoy through Confederate territory. So we're left with the mercenary option - unaffiliated and bannerless."

Priest then let out a grunt as he crossed his arms. "And why are you doing this?" he asked with a stern expression. Agent Black, for a moment, looked confused as to the meaning of the question before Priest continued on: "Surely this isn't out of the goodness of your hearts. We all know, really, that America only cares for itself and its own interests. All this talk about supplies and medicine to Mexico isn't out of generosity."

"This is beyond your own purview. You think that the enemy is just some coalition of hicks and inbreds down south for us? We have old enemies even greater than that out there still. We need all members of the old North American Alliance on their feet."

Jeb scoffed as he leaned in to whisper to Priest and other members of the flock: "As soon as they're done with that "enemy", they'll probably annex Mexico like they tried to in the war."

Interacting: Morgan ( Infab ), Slade ( Breadman ), Runt ( joshuadim )
Nearby: Bonney & Fang ( AriAriAbabwa & SavannahSmiles ), Aitan ( dikdik ), Lucero & Marisol ( BriiAngelic ), Dustin ( Roda the Red ), Betsy ( Lost Echo ), Callum ( Sistros ), Beam ( Lord Moldoma ), Cris Topher ( Azurian Dream ), Artemis ( SavannahSmiles )

 

[Breadman]

"I prefer Eastwood, he was more nuanced." Slade didn't take the agent seriously. Projection of authority always got the worst out of him. "You're holding out on us." Slade looked at Black "Can tell by you dodging the question and practically going cross-eyed trying to think of how to do it and give the second most unoriginal insult I've heard today at the same time. That's why you guys wear those cheap glasses in the first place." He motioned with a hand to Song "Just do what the other one did and say above our paygrade. You're going to live longer." Now was agent Black just new to this or the hair trigger send to be intimidating. "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?"

 

[Lost Echo]

Betsy was split. Experience had taught her the lessons of leaving her bike alone. And how much someone would fight to keep what they stole. At least she’d had ammo then. But this was the government. Surely they could protect something as measly as her bike?

As others climbed into the trucks, she looked around. The big house truck stood out from the rest of the vehicles. It was a Leader’s. No one would dare take anything from him. Deciding to use his protection, she dropped the back to the ground, then slid it underneath the truck. She had to shift it to avoid the tires, but it fit just fine.

With a proud nod to herself, she scampered over, climbing into the idling trucks last. Her gun clanged as she found a seat in the corner, sticking out further than she was. Looking out in curiosity, she clung to the side of the truck, her gloves catching against the metal, as it started to move. She’d never been in one before. But with how fast they could move, she was slightly scared of falling out.

This didn’t bounce as much as the other’s she’d seen speeding away so fast they were out of sight in seconds.

Looking straight down was a blur that made her stomach clench, but looking out was interesting. She’d come to small hoveled towns before. Where everything was a pile of sticks waiting for one to fall. Here the buildings looked stable, though not as much as her shelter. She could make out people moving, perhaps trading for goods? Would she have time to hunt before leaving? It would be best to stock up on ammo.

But the smell! She knew fish stank worse than rotting deer, but this was worse than she could imagine. Tucking back into the truck, she burrowed her face into her jacket, trying to use the musky smell to override the stench.

She looked up at the CO’s announcement. It didn’t make sense--there were mutant fishmen?--but she chanted, “Go USA!” While pumping her free arm before sticking her nose back into the fabric. They could defeat anything.

The smell still lingered in her nose as she raised her head to look why they stopped. Instead she was encouraged out, and stumbling as she found her legs beneath her, she looked up and gawked at the huge gateway in front of them.

She jolted in surprise when an officer stepped into her view, but agreeably took off her coat for the guard to inspect. It was a bit of difficulty for the man, who had not expected it to be practically made of pockets, each holding supplies for hunting or ammo for her gun. She also kept funny bones from her kills and rocks that seemed to shine in the sunlight. He found plenty out of the ordinary, but everything passed muster, so she joined the others waiting.
The walk inside was so exciting! This was her dream come true. She was a member of the…of the….she was helping the government! She made sure to walk tall and stiffly, to make a good first impression. Still, she walked faster to insure she could be in the front when they stopped in front of two agents! Agents! She was having difficulty not to squirm in excitement.

Her grin dropped at the unfriendly welcome. The human woman was already displeased. Was it something else? Or had their group already done something wrong? The worries went away as the masked man spoke as expected.

Then he asked for questions. She was about to blurt out, when could they leave? When people started questioning the agents! Even the Leader, Mr. Priest did. As if the government would have ulterior motives. Bowie’s owner was going to get himself killed insulting them like that! She wondered if she could claim Bowie if he died. Hadn’t the horse only let her touch him? Why he even asked for payment! As if they shouldn’t do this just because this was the right thing to do!