Marcus slumped next to the doors of the old shop, taking a moment to make himself comfy and take a swig from his hip flask, he stared towards the sky. The sun was high and a blazing heat was being cast. The dry, cracked asphalt beneath him was warm to the touch.
Ford hobbled about, a constant look of fear on his face. He wasn't sure of their plan, yet had no other choice but to follow them along. He set himself to inspecting the engine of the Vehicle, mainly to keep his nerves straight. Raising the hood, he looked underneath and found the modified engine. It stank of ethanol. Fuel, diesel or petrol, was scarce in the wasteland and many of the traveler's used this fuel source as a cheap and plentiful alternative. Many even brewing their own, from their sugarcane farms.
Turning to the others, Ford started to speak. "So, we gunna head to them merchant fella's? Or to the old mutie hunters frien'?"
The sight of the horribly mutilated corpse made Irish's eyes widen and stomach churn more than ever. The sights almost seemed to intensify the wretched stench, making it increasingly difficult to stand around any longer. "Err...will tha' be all then?" He asked the gangly doctor as he leaned to pick up the plastic container. "Anythin' to go wit' yer biscuits? Butter? Jam?" At this point, the merchant was nervously drumming his fingers on the container, eager to leave the room as soon as possible.
An unsynchronised rattling echoed through the foul smelling air, the man known only as 'Irish' to the demented doctor, was playing the chorus of fear as he tapped his callused fingers along the hard plastic gift Mortis had bestowed upon him.
"Err...will tha' be all then?"
The rattling had grown from the fingers and was now afflicting the foreign toned stranger, with the fear almost radiating from the man's very being, Morits inched a step closer; his fiendish gaze rapidly scanning the bits and pieces of the strangers attire, stance and movements.
"Anythin' to go wit' yer biscuits? Butter? Jam?"
Mortis' features contorted into something of contemplation, his blood soaked claws tousling through his snow white mane, the crimson liquid staining the tangled strands. After a minute the doctor rested his arm on his new companions shoulder the blood marking the man's clothing.
"Biscuits and Jam!" Mortis squicked with childish glee.
The sound of the box's contents rattling with each drum of Irish's fingers came to an abrupt end as he looked curiously at the doctor, looked over at the arm on his shoulder, then back at the doctor. "I really don't mean to be rude 'ere...but ye do realize just 'ow feckin' creepy ye are, don't ye?" He took one of his hands off the box and as casually as he could, plucked the doctor's arm from his shoulder and let it drop to the man's side. The sound of the man's glee at the prospect of recieving biscuits and jam was terribly out of place and gave the doctor an even more creepy demeanor than before, which was already at an alarming level. Turning his attention from the doctor, he gazed at the former resting place of the man's arm and almost immediately the merchant's features scrunched up in a look of disgust and disdain at the mark it left on his jacket as he tried to rub it off. "Feckin' 'ell...if this stains me coat, ye're payin' fer a new one, I'll 'ave ye know. As fer yer biscuits and jam, ye'll get 'em when ye get 'em..." he said as he turned to leave ths shop, quietly adding with a low mumble, "ye feckin' mentaller."
After stepping out of the dim shop and into the light of the sun, Irish had to squint a bit as he let his eyes adjust to the brightness. He stood there a moment, breathing deep and basking in the relative freshness of the air. Taking note of Marcus and Ford standing aside the doorway, he spoke up clearly for them to hear. "I hope, fer yer sakes, ye're not waitin' in line fer an examination," he said as he cocked his thumb, gesturing to the inside of the shop, "tha' fella's off 'is feckin' nut. Oh, and afore I forget, ye two be needin' anythin' from the markets? Ye've any requests," Irish shook the box, rattling the contents for emphasis, "ye'd better make sure ye've got somethin' to cover it."
Ashe walked up to Irish and gave him her rusted out MP7A1. No doubt it would sell for some price at the markets were she knew Irish would be adept in.
"Have this. I won't need it anymore, I just need more shells. Buckshot is my preference." Ashe said to Irish. She eyed the weapon though for a brief second. It had served her well in the wasteland but it the weapon was stolen from her father's armory during her escape. The echoes of gunfire and screams of the dead or dying still rang in Ashe's ears sometimes. When they had attacked, they used a weapon that was unlike Ashe had ever heard. First there was a loud thunderous sound, then screaming as it plummeted down onto the walls. It would explode with an unparalleled force, tearing flesh and concrete asunder.
Shaun walked outside with regret, "I would love a fucking shower..." Shaun spat with disgust while wiping he brow clean and making sure not to drop the launcher and then he saw Irish and the others talking, he walked over and presented the large explosive weapon "Okay, I got this thing cleaned, when do you think we can go, Im in some desperate need of some supplies...and to get rid of this DAMN thing" Shaun said as he fidgeted with the launcher.
Shaun then felt the presence that he was interrupting the conversation, "Fine, I can wait, just don't expect it to get any cooler out here..." Shaun pouted
-hand me a match, Rico. They deserve nothing better than to-
-burn it all, Rico! No one gets out-
-alive and well I see, Rico-
-Rico-
-Rico-
-Rico-
"RICO!" Blake woke drenched in cold sweat, the sour smell of blood and dirt burning his nostrils. The nightmarish images of Rico melted away as Blake regained awareness, foggy though it was. He dry-retched between gasps of stale air, the cramps in his stomach made him painfully aware of the fact that he was still alive. Slowly, Blake opened his aching eyes.
The room is dark but, a few shafts of light from between cracks in the walls and ceiling revealed some sort of abandoned shop. Blake wondered where he was. The sickly feeling throughout his body told him that he had been gripped by the rage. Anything could have happened, any amount of time could have elapsed.
As he tried to push himself to his feet, Blake realised that his wrists and ankles were bound. A few moments struggling and he could already tell that the cords were expertly tied. Resting his face against the cold floor, Blake took a deep breath before unleashing a blood curdling cry. As he held the scream for as long as possible, the pain that racked his body from the effort caused it to dwindle into a whimper. Forcing his eyes shut to block the suddenly swirling colours, Blake focused his mind on drawing ragged breaths.
The Good Man will deliver me from this... He thought cloudily.
"Well, I'm fairly certain this'll fetch a good price." Irish said as he inspected the weapon, "Aye, this is a fine weapon indeed. I'll be sure to get some toothpaste for ye, per'aps get meself some as well." After stashing the weapon in his coat pocket, he turned to Shaun to address is urgent request for a swift departure with a smile. "Keep yer Alans on, boyo. We'll be leavin' soon, just makin' sure everybody gets what they need."
Irish turned back towards Marcus and Ford and opened his mouth to speak, but something stopped him before he could say a word. A loud scream emanated from within the shop, causing the merchant to swiftly turn any attention away from all else. Tha'd be Blake, I'm sure... he thought, eit'er 'e's very angry or tha' doctor just made him a new patient.
Without removing his gaze from the inside of the dim, Irish verbalized what surely must have been on the others' minds. "Well, tha' can't be too good, now can it?" He approached the doorway, cautiously as he could. "I suppose I'd better go check on 'im. 'Ere, make yerself useful." He handed the plastic container of surgical equipment to Shaun. With his hand readied to draw his .38, should things take a turn for the worse, he slowly stepped foot into the dim shop. Once again, his eyes had to readjust to the low lighting as he set focus on where the doctor should be, checking to make sure he hadn't actually set off to perform some new experiments.
Marcus looked at Irish. "I'll be coming with, never mind the wound - I have a few favours I can call in and by the looksa things, we're gunna need them." Marcus said. He stood and with a slight twinge limped forwards. A loud yell came from the building and Irish correctly assumed it was the mutant hunter. Watching as the strange man walked in to attempt to talk with Blake, Marcus grabbed his rifle and clutched his side, making his way across to the Humvee.
Shaun struggled to grab the plastic container which contained medical equipment that he didn't know about and sighed, "You know, that man is really scary...it's starting to worry me" Shaun said with a serious tone in reply to Irish, and started to follow them both to Doctor Mortis's "Lab", where hopefully he won't see anything that he may regret coming with them, then he noticed the scream and Marcus heading towards the humvee with a rifle.
Alright, after nearly a month I?ve finally joined in. At time of writing I?m almost completely caught up with reading the thread.
Name: Hamilton
Age:22
Gender: Male
Type: Resurrector
Mutant Y/N: Yes
Mutations (If applicable): Nightvision: Gives him near perfect ability to see in everything but absolute darkness. The improved nightvision has unfortunately resulted in extreme photophobia meaning even cloudy days seem glaringly bright to his unprotected eyes. He compensates by wearing scavenged welding goggles and/or a wide brimmed hat during daylight hours.
Four arms: A second pair of smaller arms that have grown out of the sides of his waist. Aside from being difficult to hide, the arms' growth in a spot where they were never meant to be means they both have poor support and are too weak to be of much use in a fight or for heavy lifting by themselves. The blood flow required for the extra limbs has also put a heavy strain on his heart and if Hamilton overexerts himself he's prone to fainting. When traveling or in the city he hides the arms by keeping them either in the sleeves of his overcoat or keeping them at his sides, hidden under the folds.
Appearance: A plain looking man with a round, friendly looking face and a surprisingly bright, white smile. Of below average height, between 5'8" and 5'10" with well tanned skin and black, curly hair cut short. He's thin, mostly from lack of food, but appears much bulkier due to the buttoned up overcoat made of well worn brown leather. It's obviously several sizes too large and reaches his knees. He wears both a wide-brimmed straw hat and a pair of bulky welder's goggles. If his eyes could be seen they'd be pale grey with pupils large and permanently dilated.
Gear (Weapons/misc): He carries an almost new SIG Sauer P239 9mm with 6 magazines (8 rounds per mag) and a Mossberg 500 cruiser chambered in 20 gauge with 45 shells. 5 of the pistol magazines are filled with low quality re-pressed bullets that occasionally fail to fire and the remaining magazine is filled with fresh, unused +P rounds, capable of higher penetration and stopping power than normal, optimal 9mm rounds. The shotgun shells are a random mix of birdshot, buckshot and slugs, and their smaller gauge means they have less stopping power but greater accuracy (sort of?). In addition to those he also has a wonderbar (Basically a greatly shrunk down crowbar, do a google image search) that is used for both practical purposes and as an impromptu melee weapon, along with a basic set of lockpicks used for entering ruins. He has equipment and tools for the repair of both mechanical and electronic devices but both are too heavy to carry normally and are left at his hideaway. He also carries an ancient subnotebook laptop. Its battery is long dead and he has no way to recharge it. He has never even seen it turned on and carries it more because it was one of the few things he grabbed before being driven from his hometown.
Clothing/Armour: A pair of jeans full of holes and a crudely fashioned shirt of tribal origin, along with the aforementioned hat, goggles and overcoat. For armor he only has a set of SWAT body armor he traded for. Most of the ceramic plates have been removed to reduce weight making the armor much less effective at stopping higher powered weaponry. Both the SWAT armor and the overcoat have had dozens of pockets sewn on in order to carry most of his things.
Profession: Scavenger/technician/de facto merchant
Bio/History: Hamilton lived most of his early life as an orphan in a well protected resurrector community to the southeast of Coleman's River. It was there that he was trained in his community's specialty, repairing ancient technology, and excelled at it. It wasn't until his late teens that his mutations first began to manifest and, despite his best efforts to hide them, he was discovered and run out of his home. Forced out into the wastes and largely rejected from other settlements due to his mutation, he's eked out an existence by scavenging technology from the ruins along Coleman's river. He spends his time repairing the ancient and broken tech to working order in his hideaway on the edge of the northern storm area, and then selling it to the merchants. It's during one of these infrequent trips into the city that he finds himself in Crux. Hamilton is generally shy due to his isolation and, aside from a few of the more mutant-accepting merchants and citizens, has had very little in the way of human contact since he left his community.
Hamilton walked out of the trading post, having just sold off a decent stock of technology. The real sweetener in the deal had been a Gameboy which always sold for a lot. Entertainment in the wastes was rare, especially when alone, and things like Tetris were so simple even the dumbest tribal could figure out how to play. And they always had to come back for batteries. Yes, they loved selling Gameboys. He walked past a merchant guard, doing his best to appear casual, completely uninteresting. He really didn?t feel like having people throw stones at him again, especially since he was in such a good mood. What a good day. Get out of the city, hopefully make it back home by the day after tomorrow and then relax with Charlie for awhi-
?Hey!?
Hamilton turned around. The guard he?d walked past was strolling over to him.
?We?ve had lots of theft in the past few days. You mind letting me see what you?re carrying in that coat??
?Er?ah?? Hamilton stuttered. Bad. Very bad. Only some of the Merchants were willing to deal with mutants and their security took it as a rule that mutant=problem.
?Yeah, that?s what I thought.? The guard said, grinning. He grabbed Hamilton?s arm and forced him around, binding his hands behind his back with a very well worn pair of handcuffs. ?I?ll take you in, you?ll get searched and if you?re clean you can go. If not, well??
?Don?t you need proof or?or something?? Hamilton asked as the guard started to push him back towards the gate.
?Nope.?
?I?m a merchant too! I, I sell things! Technology!?
?Yeah, you?re a fence, good for you.?
?No, I- urgh? The guard had punched Hamilton in the stomach to shut him up.
?Come on, get moving.? The guard grunted. Oh well, been awhile since I had to run.
?Hehehehe??
What the fuck are you giggling at?? The guard asked. Hamilton rounded on him.
?You?re going to need?ANOTHER PAIR OF CUFFS!?
Hamilton leapt forward, his lower arms pulling the overcoat open and pummeling the guard as best they could. The punches didn?t seem to be hurting him much, but the surprise resulted in him falling over backwards. Hamilton turned and sprinted away, cackling like a madman, amazed at his own luck. He saw a wall in the distance and ran at it. He jumped as best he could and tried to pull himself up and over. His arms were screaming in protest, they never were able to carry his full weight. He finally managed to get over the top, his stomach rolling over the squared top of the wall. He hit the ground hard and stood up. ?This may not have been the best idea.
He seemed to have landed in the guard barracks. A half dozen men, wearing the same pseudo-uniform as the original, were sitting or standing around, now looking very annoyed at the sudden interruption. After a few seconds worth of a very pregnant pause a door to Hamilton?s right slammed open and the guard that had handcuffed him ran through, blood running from his nose where Hamilton?s punches had landed.
?A freak just went over the wall! Where- ?ah?? He stopped, having spotted Hamilton, despite the mutant?s best efforts to spontaneously develop invisibility. The other guards were standing up and encircling Hamilton.
?I, uh, I?surrender?? He ventured.
?Oh, no. You aren?t getting off that lightly.? The guard with the bloody nose muttered. He stepped forward and began cracking his knuckles in anticipation.
?
45 minutes later Hamilton limped back out of the gate. His nose was bleeding, several of his fingers were either broken or merely felt like it and he had a small gash on his forehead that seemed to be bleeding far more than it should have been for its size. Everything else was sore. The guards had taken turns kicking him until the commotion drew one of the merchants. He fortunately recognized Hamilton as one of their scavenger salesmen and called off the guards. Hamilton had been lucky to have gotten his things back, though he noticed a fair chunk of the cash he?d made was now missing. And they hadn?t returned his hat. That was?very irritating. Body really, Really hurts. And that old bullet wound is acting up. Not going to make good time like this. I need to find somewhere to rest, maybe go back into Crux and pay a doctor tomorrow.
As he limped out of the city proper and into the scattered buildings of the waste he saw an old store, not even boarded up or in ruins. He failed to notice the vehicles parked nearby. That?ll work He thought to himself and limped towards it.
Copy pasted this from a word doc and it seems the Escapist isn't registering the quotation marks properly. So, random question marks equals quotes/apostrophe. Ugh.
Irish saw the doctor still at his work station, most likely lost in his examinations of the corpse - if you could even call it that at this point - on the counter. Well, tha's a feckin' relief... thought the merchant as he moved past the surgeon's station and towards the back rooms, and now to check on Ol' Blake. Upon entering the room Blake was being held in, it became apparant the man on the ground was quite secured. It was silent in the hallway, save for the faint, sickly sounds of meat and organs being shifted around, coming from the shop's main room. Irish stepped into the room and looked down at Blake to ensure he still had some level of consciousness about him. Crouching beside the binded man, the merchant cleared his throat and spoke just loudly enough for him to be heard. "Oi, Blake? 'Ow ye doin' boyo? Ye feelin' alrigh'?"
Through the fuzziness of his clouded mind, Blake heard Irish's voice. "Wh-" He mumbled, raising his head slowly. He blinked at the trader, the man's nose bruised and swollen. "You?" Anger and confusion welled up inside Blake's muscles. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his sweaty palms. "Why have you tied me up you fucking bastard!? Where am I!?"
With sudden alacrity, Blake pushed up onto his knees and threw himself at the trader. He hit the ground hard but continued to struggle against his bonds. "I'll fucking kill you, you fucking ****!!!!" He roared, each word sending a stabbing pain through his aching body. "The Good Man will not be able to claim you after I'm through with you!!!"
Shaun followed Irish and ended up in the homemade Medical Bay that Mortis made his home, he felt sick after stepping inside due to thinking of the horrible things the Doctor has already done in here. Shaun sighed and walked forward, smelling death but with a tint of a clean hospital smell with it, he walked up near Mortis and dumped the box full of Medical Equipment on a counter beside Mortis. "Hey Doc, how much do you think this will sell for?" Shaun said while hiding a brief smirk across his face.
Shaun was checking through the box to make sure nothing had fallen out or gone missing, but his real intent was to check out what horrifying tools that Mortis had a lifelong friendship with until he heard the screaming from one of the back rooms, "wait here, I'll be back", he decided to check it out and see if Irish is okay. As Shaun walked into the room as Blake screamed about the good man again, Fuckin savages... Shaun grimly thought as he walked up to Irish. "Well it seems he's in a good mood..." Shaun huffed as he watched the struggling Blake
Shaun pouted at the mean remark, "Weeeeell, lets see, you raged in the humvee and almost killed everyone until Ford KO-ed you, then we decided to hunker up in this shop until Irish, me and a few other people go to the Crux to see what's happening, and we have tied you up so we won't die...so I would calm down unless you want us to let the Doc take a look at you" Shaun made the threat with a fake smile on his face, but of course he was lying, he didn't want anything bad to happen to these semi-okay people.
He peered at Irish and pointed to his watch, Can't we just go? Shaun rudely thought due to all the heavy weight of the M72 on him, he wanted to get rid of it as fast as possible.
Mortis was finished with the sack of meat laid out before him. He had dissected the stranger, he had flayed him, he had even put him back together, but; ultimately it was all for naught. The corpse revealed no oddities that would pique the doctor's demented curiosity, nothing that set him apart from the lone wanderers he'd find half alive in the hellish wasteland of the 'Twisted Earth'. Nothing about the man seemed to be of any worth.
Trash... Garbage... Waste...
Mortis was about remove the corpse from his'Operating Table', likely drag it out the back of this abandoned hub and bury it in that sun scorched earth but was interrupted by a flurry of people moving in and out of his bloodstained abode. Irish, who had interrupted him early, waltzed past with his weapon drawn, while the simpleton who's eye's were alight like globes felt the need to deter him directly.
"Hey Doc, how much do you think this will sell for?"
"Enough..." Mortis was unfamiliar with the economics of the wastes, it had often presented itself as an exercise worth investing in but he hardly ever had the time. That, and it usually required a level of charisma his appearance and persona were less than able at providing. By the time Mortis looked up to greet the fool, he was already gone; wandered into the side wing where his prize had been stored, tied up with a nice little bow.
"How rude. Isn't that right Corpsey" Mortis grabbed a tousle of hair that still remained fastened firmly to the dead bodies cranium and lifted it up and down like a puppet
"That's right, very rude!" The sloppy attempt at ventriloquism still managing to bring a frightening grin to the spindly madman's features.
"And you, you fucking mutant scum!!" A familiar voice echoed through the sickly chamber drawing Mortis out of the recesses of his warped imagination. "Why have you brought me here and why am I tied up!?" The fury fuelled calls of his pious prey catching Mortis by surprise, causing him to drop his tools and desist in his macabre games. The scar adorned grin growing once more into the horrible, toothy smile that had become his signature.
Irish stood and took a step back as the bound man made a lunge, not quite surprised he had been so angry. He would've spoken up had Shaun not made his way into the misunderstanding, sparking another outburst from Blake. Upon hearing Shaun's attempt at explaining their current predicament, Irish slowly lowered his face into his palm, almost wincing in anticipation of the outbust that was sure to follow. Once Shaun threateningly mentioned the possible practices of a certain doctor, the merchant smacked the young fellow's shoulder and gave him a look that practically screamed 'Really?'
Irish turned to bound man and spoke softly, "Alrigh' Blake boyo, lemme tell ye summat. The lad's pretty much righ', but per'aps 'e coulda been a wee bit more clear on the situation. Ye did kinda go crazy in the 'umvee, breakin' me nose an' 'urtin' a few o' the ot'ers in the process..." the merchant paused, experiencing a momentary flashback of seeing Blake's heavy boot flying at him. Shaking the thought from his mind, Irish continued, "but wha's important: ye're safe, we're safe, we're in Crux, and a few o' the group will be 'eadin' to the markets - so luckily ye woke up in time to arrange a shopping list o' sorts. Now, if I'm gonna be untyin' ye, ye 'ave to calm down just a wee bit. Tha's not askin' too much, is it?"
At Irish's words, Blake stopped struggling, sagging to the floor with laboured breaths. After a moment, he craned his neck and looked up into the trader's eyes, holding them defiantly until the strain became too much for him. His head fell back to the sweat-slicked floor, eyes closed.
After a few ragged breaths, Blake opened his eyes and looked between Shaun and Irish. "I'm sorry for what happened," he sighed, "it's something I've had to deal with for most of my life." A thin smile quivered the corners of his mouth. "If we're in Crux, we're hardly safe trader. Even after I'd smashed yer face in, you should have enough sense left to know that." A coughing fit shook the mutant hunter's body, ending in a pained groan.
"Could you untie me, please?" He asked softly, face resting against the dirty floor. "I need proper rest after the intensity of the rage. I'll be no use if the Dogs come searchin'."
Ashe had been in the front of the shop, by the Humvee. She looked into the ruined landscape seeing what was left of the buildings against the sunlight. These calm moments were all too common in her life, wandering the wastes, and now she was here. With these people.
She didn't regret what had happened so far. It had been a good adventure and something she hadn't encountered while going about the Twisted Earth. Then she heard the scream of a bewildered Mutant Hunter. Ashe loaded a few rounds into her magnum and went towards where they put Blake. Ashe saw Irish and Shaun huddled around the entry to the door.
"Is everything alright?" Ashe asked the two. Wondering if the hunter had made his move.
This site uses cookies to help personalise content, tailor your experience and to keep you logged in if you register.
By continuing to use this site, you are consenting to our use of cookies.
