deegee

The Risen: Fear the Fallen

He walked -- never run, there's a muchmuchmuch better chance of falling or losing focus and slipping up. (Alaska brand ice melter, $3.99, automotive **Now on SALE! BOGO**) Through the checkout aisle, over to where Grant-package was on the floor, giving the rotter a noogie. He looked silly, all panic and slimy ooze on his fingers. It would be a tricky shot, hitting the crawler without also plastering Grant-package. Ryan took a good swing with the bat, aiming real carefully, and stove in the corpse's brain-pan.

He whirled about, ichor dripping from the Easton's yellow-and-red lettering, and stepped back to register #4 to retrieve the pistol he'd left there a moment ago. Then, he withdrew two tissues (Simplicity! brand facial tissue, 2-ply, $.99 each, aisle 3) and wiped the bat clean, discarding the tissues in the nearby waste-paper basket. Littering was against company standards, and was a misdemeanor offence, thank-you-please. Also, it simply wouldn't do to have fallen-blood and brain-matter on his bat.

Listening intently, he remembered Grant-package-friend saying there were four. He counted the ones that had fallen. Old-lady-no-leg. One. Girl-with-flip-flops. Two. Noogie. Three. Three corpses! Ah!Ah!Ah!Ah! (Sesame Street, "Count with the Count," children's colouring book, check-out end-cap # 1 & 3, $2.69 each. Other titles available!) "Nonsense. Enough." He whirled about, looking and listening, smelling the air for any sign of the last walker.

"Grant-package-friend, you sure there were four?"

Road Warriors - A survival adventure set in the world of Mad Max

There's something about posting in a long-forgotten post-apocalypse RP, with little to no hope of a response, that seems right somehow.

Road Warriors - A survival adventure set in the world of Mad Max

...the trek took most of the morning. Walking a bike that weighed near 350 lbs over mostly loose sand and scrub ground was a fool's errand, a slog worse than running in knee-deep mud. Remember mud? heh. When he crested the last rise of the dune concealing the smoke (or what remained of it) he gave a low whistle. Whatever had happened here, he had missed it. And for small mercies, he was thankful. At least half a dozen shapes lay half-buried in the sand. Vehicles burnt and twisted from a fight that looked to have taken the lives of many. Other, smaller lumps in the sand dotted the scene. Bodies. There were no tracks left to examine, but reading the lay of the vehicles, Rig could tell that some vehicles had escaped destruction. That was good. Good for them that rode those vehicles. Bad for them that got left behind.

He flicked the spade end of the kickstand down, and after another thorough scan of the horizon, got to work. First, the vehicles. Digging out the remains was tough going, and the ones that had burned, he mostly ignored. Not much worth salvage there. There were two vehicles that had crashed, and begun to burn, only to have the fires snuffed by the storm. These, he focussed on. First was a buggy, its engine and transmission smashed and ruined. Even so, he managed to retrieve two bottles of useful life-blood. A plastic water bottle-worth of ATF, and a canteen of oil. Thirty-weight, by the taste. The driver had been picked clean, but the driver's seat was another find: still (mostly) covered in leather, the black, stitched pelt was freed to get folded and placed in his pack. The second vehicle offered up its distributer, and though the alternator looked good, Rig deemed it too cumbersome to carry. So it was left, along with some salvaged wiring, in a tin, buried in a spot he could find in the future, if it came to that.

Next, the bodies. This didn't take long. Most had burned, or were picked clean. Certainly, there was nothing left of use, really. Sure, he could have added a belt, or a pouch, but he had what he needed. The biggest find was a pistol, discarded, its barrel bent and blackened. This he stripped for small parts: screws, springs, the trigger assembly, all of which went into a tin he kept for barter or his own use down the road.

The second-to-last body, he pulled mostly free of the sand and began rifling mechanically through its pockets, when he recoiled at a sound. This one, clung to life. If barely. He drew his pistol, levelled it at the form. Stood there a full five minutes. It was barely alive. Unconscious. He holstered his piece, dragged the form clear of the sand. Male, female? He couldn't tell, the head was shaved. He flipped the unconscious form over, dragged it into the shade afforded by one of the wrecks. Either it would live, or it would die.

He spared the form another look, then went back to his bike to retrieve that fouled plug, and set to work cleaning it. It seemed, he was staying awhile...

The Dark Reckoning

...liking the start of things here.

The Dark Reckoning

The scene was a grizzly one, there was no denying it. A vehicle lay burning a hundred paces off, West. A bike lay on its side not far off. Parts and debris shifted in the ever-present sand and wind on the fissured blacktop. Blood dotted the scene, and the smell of burnt meat wafted along with the black smoke from the wreck. A quick glance around the ruined, half-toppled buildings close by showed several places that could be potential ambushes, waiting to happen. She needed to move soft and quiet, and not hang about this place too long.

The man she had shot was dead-gone. No doubt. Her shot had vaporized his Carotid, and he had bled out in less than a minute. Most of his life's essence lay pooling on the ground, and sprayed on the man that lay below him. The dead man wore mismatched boots, and the garb common to road-gangers. He had a knife at his belt, and a few pouches bulged with potential loot.**

For his part, J knew it was better to play possum than to give away any signs of life. Folk were less likely to waste a shot on an already dead man, than the living. Even freshly killed, neither corpse would reanimate for several hours. When she prodded him with her boot, he had every intention of lying still, giving away nothing. Unfortunately, J's body had other plans, despite his wanting to 'play dead.' His partial flail chest allowed only a gurgling of shallow breath, which he could not hide, despite his best efforts. His eyes were mostly swollen shut, but he could see enough to raise the derringer unsteadily, slowly aim it at this new threat.

The hammer clicked on an empty chamber. He didn't have the strength to do anything else but wait for death.

** - if Morgan checks the biker's body, she'll find one unspoiled can of food (no label) and three bloated cans of spoiled food, two live bullets (one will turn out to be .22, the other 9mm) and a dozen empty shell casings, a canteen of dirty water, a bit of jerky wrapped in a scrap of clean cloth, and two polaroids, one of a girl, the other of a beach view.

@Nallore

The Dark Reckoning

---

The Future...

It was the end -- the end of it all. Humanity, whatever that was, had finally slammed its hand down on the big red Self-Destruct button. The seas boiled. The bombs fell. The 'Golden Age' of man's last era was but a memory. Now all was carrion. No safe haven. No sanctuary. No friends. We are all dead. Some are just too stubborn to admit it.

The Dark Reckoning

"JT"

---

Age: "I dunno... I'm in my thirties, betcha."
Build: average height, maybe a little skinnier than he ought to be. Sinewy, hard -- like a distance runner.
Place of Birth: "Don't matter ...not there anymore. Back East."
Appearance: has the look of one who is both predator and prey (he is.) Perpetual thousand yard stare. Not much for words, but knows more than he lets on. Owns what he carries, and not much more. He has several scars on his back, keloid scars running in long lines, and a burn scar on his left shoulder and much of his left arm and flank, covering a few ruined tattoos. A barcode tattoo on his right wrist.
Weapons: Ask and find out. Definitely carries some sort of long gun.
Health: "I had the bad mumps when I was a kid. Bad gut sometimes. No cancers..."
Bio: J has wandered more days than most have held breath. From the frozen Northern Wastes to the crater lakes and the 'shens, J has seen it. He has held some jobs in his travels. Sec man, Gravedigger, Scav, 'Slinger. He's been a slave, a son, a lost soul. He don't like folks too much. Trouble tends to follow him. As he'd say (if he were prone to wordstuff... he ain't) "I stick my finger in the air, shit sticks to it." He knows his way around an engine, a weapon or three, and knows a thing or two about a thing or two. Mostly, about staying above ground.

The Dark Reckoning

He was dead, and he knew it.

Around the time they kicked in his ribs, he tuned out the beating. If you been on the receiving end of enough punishment, you know to tune out the small stuff. Eyes, nose, teeth, bones... they're gonna take all that from you. You just gotta hold tight to that little piece in the centre. That bit, they can't take away.

He was vaguely aware that his wheels were burning, somewhere off to his left. His home. Everything he owned, save the shit they'd scavv'd, or the bits that lay strewn over the ground nearby. They'd pulled off his boots... fished through his pockets. He thought of the old, torn polaroid stuck in the dash, pictured it burning, melting. He rolled onto his stomach, started dragging himself toward the ditch, away from whatever they had in store for him. Someone grabbed him by the ankle, hauled him in a different direction. His eyes were so swollen, he couldn't tell where, or why.

Why. There was no 'why.' There was never a reason. Kill or be killed. Survive. It was reason enough. Take the shit you can from the guy who's weaker, or unlucky. He smelled the man long before he was flipped over and straddled. Could hear the unmistakable sound of steel leaving an oiled sheath. Smelled copper, and felt the cold, putrid spittle drip from the man's mouth. But he'd brought a knife to a gunfight. The tiny derringer slid into his grasp from its nook up his sleeve, and he aimed it by feel. When it went off, it left a neat hole in the man's neck, and he slumped over, hot blood jetting over the other man's countenance. Blessed unconsciousness followed...

@Nallore

1x1 long-term The Boys, or original RP. Specific characters, and faceclaim requests inside. [NSFW][18+][MxF][Discord&PMs]

ew. Homelander is such an abhorrent character. I like the world, but Homelander? blargh.

Year 272, Under the Shield

Name: Bayar "Birch" Burcak

Age: Bayar thinks he is 36 years old. He is not completely sure.

Societal Role: Until recently, none (Convict.) However, in light of the recent 'troubles,' he has suddenly become somewhat useful. He has - thus far - made five successful runs into the Outerdark, the longest being a little longer than three months.

Skills: What made Burcak different from most of the other repeat offender, lifelong convicts was his initiative inside. Over the course of seventeen years' incarceration spread over five convictions, he has taken full advantage of any of the (infrequent, meagre) programs offered to better himself. Thus far, he has been taught readin' and writin', metal fabrication, welding, small engine repair, 'lectronics, water treatment, sewin' and weaving, a little bit of history, woodworkin'... not to mention pouring over any book he could get his hands on, 'specially anything to do with the before. Prison provides for a lot of time. Time to reflect, time to make trouble, time to do a bunch of pull-ups. Time to make friends, or enemies. Birch made time for all of the above.

Bio: They don't really have a word for what Burcak is. He once heard someone call him an 'illegal.' Way he figures, that's about as close as anyone ever said. Burcak was born in the Outerdark. But every person who ever mattered in the Artifact, denies this as a possibility. Thing is, they've never been able to determine how he doesn't wear the Mark. Everyone has the Mark. Not Burcak. It doesn't help that he can't remember much from Outside, from home. He knows he was small when he came in, from out of the Dark. But whatever he is -- it has been a problem to anyone of authority ever since he could remember. School, work, lodging... all was ultimately barred to him for some reason or another. There had been others like him that he'd heard of, over the years. But none of them lasted. If they had, it would be an affront to the Elders, who maintain there is no way in, or out of the Artifact. Most disappeared. But Burcak had remained. Usually just long enough to get into some sort of trouble, by his own hand or via circumstance and his priors. For a time, he tried to convince himself that his past didn't exist. That he had been wrong. But with the recent 'troubles,' They came to Him. First time ever.

Bayar Burcak