Ortho's Journal - Vol. IV
Back when he was in still in the service, Ortho went through his share of psychiatric therapy in an attempt to improve his atrocious people skills. He didn't get much out of it except a habit of keeping a journal as a means of organizing his thoughts and contemplating his actions. This portion of the Shelter will be dedicated to "Stone Cold's" ruminations as he wanders the Wasted West. The journal itself takes the form of a special audio-only palmcorder, and the data slug entries he records are transcribed verbatim (or as close as possible) here. His latest entry is posted last - scroll down to find the newest one. Dates reflect the date of the game session.
4/2 - I've finally put Laketown and Kingman behind me. Too bad I couldn't leave Dr. Creeps there as well. The old loony decided to follow me out of the wreckage that had once been Kingman into parts unknown. Those parts unknown turned out to be a moderately large burg by the name of Wickenburg. Nearly six or seven miles of shadowy abandonment. Deceptively empty looking structures dotted most of this once city's topography. A bit of exploring revealed a somewhat thriving community guarded by a wall of well placed rubbish and the remnants of an old tank.
Once the guards were relatively sure that we didn't pose an immediate threat, we were allowed to enter. It was instantly apparent that this place was scav heaven. The sideways glances that Creepy and I were getting from the denizens weren't at all subtle. We were being sized up; whether as easy marks or possible customers I didn't know. I could've cared less. We were only staying long enough to rest up and restock ourselves for the last leg of the journey back to Dango. Anyone stupid enough to screw us over wasn't going to be around long enough to tell the tale.
Once we found the local drinking hole and were greeted with the usual silenced conversations and turned heads that I long ago had become accustom to. I think all of five minutes passed before things started to get interesting. Three Black Hats walked into the bar, went up to the bartender and blatantly motioned in our direction. The bartender appeared to very nervous, shaking his head yes repeatedly. The Black Hats then did an "about face" and made their exit. I didn't care for the whole feel of the situation, so I decided to have a little chat with the bartender. The only info I could pry out of the guy was that there was enough trouble in town and that I shouldn't get involved. Normally that's the kind of advice I'd follow, but a little voice in my head said "stay and see what happens".
As we were waiting, a young, thin woman with long black hair came up to me and looked long and hard into my eyes. She had dark glasses on her pale face. They were so dark in fact that I had thought she was blind. When she asked me, "How long have your eyes looked like that"?, however, my blindness theory was shattered. I told her that I was born with them, not really wishing to engage in any meaningful discussion on that, or any other subject. I hoped that my shortness would have discouraged any further conversation. I was on the clock after all. She looked at me for a few more seconds, muttered something about "not understanding what it meant" and slowly made her way toward the makeshift stage at the front of the establishment. With that bit of strangeness behind us Creeps and I continued our vigil at the bar.
As sure as Dr. Creeps has chiggers in his beard, the Black Hats came back, right over toward Dr. Creeps and myself. The head man asked me if my name was Glick. That took me by surprise. It's not often that someone asks me to verify my identity - let alone a Black Hat. The worm was dangling and the hook was most likely very sharp. So, of course I bit. After a few moments of the usual tough guy talk, it became clear that I was being offered a job and the man doing the offering was yet another middle man. Creeps was informed to stay behind as I went off with the thug triplets. The trip was a short one; right across the street over to the local law enforcement office. The old Law dog sitting behind the desk nearly jumped out of his skin when the head thug started barking orders at him. It was clear who ran things in this town. After being lead down a short hallway and into a small office, I was introduced to the big kahuna; your typical shady villain type complete with a full, black hood that covered his entire face. Then things got even more interesting. It turned out that the hooded character was none other than Lieutenant Killian, Fran's commanding officer from Faraway. It didn't take a degree in quantum mechanics to see where this little exchange was heading. It also wasn't a big mystery as to why Mr. Killian wore a hood.
One might question my motives as to why I didn't kill Killian on the spot - after all, that's what all of us good little Sykers do to those bad old Apostates, right? Wrong. Here's a news flash to all those brainers who still cling to the idea that the world is a black and white place. When I run across a couple of Apostates burning down a scav village, killing everyone in sight for fun, then of course I won't hesitate to splatter their brains across the landscape. If, on the other hand, an Apostate offers me thousands in high quality trade and all of the fifty caliber ammo I carry just to waste someone (who may be traveling with the posse I'm in at the time), I'm sure as Hell not going to start blasting away. The contract to terminate Fran was best job offer I've had in a very long time, but I didn't want to come across as some wet behind the ears rookie. I told him I would get back to him on it. With that I made my way back to the bar. Before departing thug number one told me that if I wanted to finalize the contract all I had to do was tell the bartender that I needed to talk to the Black Hood (I would've gone with the Obsidian Cowl myself).
I came back to the bar and was greeted by looks of relief on the faces of the bartender and several other patrons who were in the midst of having there collective ears talked off by the certifiable Sage. Once Dr. Creeps saw me, the others he'd been questioning went back to their muffled and cautious conversations. It looked like I was either going have to endure yet another string of fragmentary questions or seek the solitude of my room. Fortunately, I and the rest of the bar got to go through door number three so to speak. The weird woman who inquired about my eyes happened to be the star attraction at the Wickenburg Inn, as I came to call it. She was introduced by the bartender as Madame Becky and apparently had the ability to tell an individual's future. If she was a Psionic, she sure wasn't a Syker. All that long, black hair made that fact a bit of a given. My first thought was she and the bartender were scaming the room. Several things changed my mind. First there was Dr. Creeps reaction to the whole display. I think he may have wet himself with excitement. Parchment and pen exploded forth with unbridled glee. I've never seen him scribe anything that wasn't of extra-normal origins. Then there was the fact that there was an absence of any type of collection plate. At least not one that I noticed. But the clincher was her eyes.
As began her show from the stage, she was still wearing the extra dark glasses that she had on during our earlier encounter. As she made her way into the crowd, She removed her glasses as she began her precognitive journey. Grasping people's hands in turn, she seemed to go into a trance, and mumbled predictions to gasps of astonishment about the room. Apparently, most of the folks in the bar were already true-believers of the woman's abilities. When she finally made her way to me I understood her curiosity about me. When I looked into her eyes, what looked back were a perfect reflection of my own. Two glossy black pools with skull like pupils seemingly floating at each eye's center. My hand was in her's before I had time to register what my eyes were sending to my brain. Time seemed to freeze as a sharp pain slammed into my head. After what seemed like a lifetime had passed, I heard a faint yet disturbing voice. It hissed in a rasping tone that permeated every atom of my being and muttered two words:
"At Laassst!"
The next thing I remembered was the bartender gently shaking Becky back to reality and me along with her. She looked at me a moment longer, then went slowly to a back room with the bartender, accompanied by the murmered complaints of the other patrons. Dr. Creeps was about to unleash a torrent of verbal diarrhea in my direction, but I dissuaded his intellectual advances and made my way to my room. Obviously I had a great deal to sort out, and my head still pounded from the strange mental contact with the woman.
I devoted the remainder of my first day in Wickenburg to meditation. How did this woman come to possess identical eyes to my own? Surely not from..... no. I didn't want to relive that moment. It's been ten years and my mind still reels from the psychic experience. I needed inner focus, then sleep. After all... it didn't look like I was going anywhere until I worked out how sharp Killians hook was, and whether his bait was as tempting as it seemed. As for the other matter...meditation. Definitely meditation.
Two days of meditation and bumming about the town later, I was still no closer answering the Madame Becky conundrum. I decided that I would leave it alone for now. I had more important matters to attend to in the form of a contract. I decided that if I ever made my way back to Wickenburg after things quited down, I'd pursue the mystery woman's secret and it's possible repercussions. I had decided that the response to taking the contract was going to be yes, but I was in no hurry. After all, the mark had yet to show up. I had taken the most viable route back toward Dango, and I knew the posse, with Fran, would be along eventually. Better to do the job in Wickenburg and get my pay here as opposed to tracking my prey down elsewhere and then having to backtrack to collect. Yes, everything was going to work out just fine. At least those were my hopes for the near future. Fate of course, had other plans. It couldn't have been any later than 7:30 in the morning when the commotion began up the road from the bar.
The bellowing cry of "Good Lord - there's more of 'em" echoed down the street. It could only mean one thing. My old posse was finally in town. It was as if the bar was giant magnet and the posse were small bit of iron fillings being irrevocably drawn to its poles. One by one they ambled in. All of them but Fran. Had she gone off on her own, or was she still at Lake Meade awaiting the outcome of her trial? Whatever the reasons were, it as clear that fulfilling any agreements with Killian was going to take more time than I had planned.
No matter. For the kind of pay I was being offered, I had all the time in the world. The entire posse made their way over to the table that Dr. Creeps and I were occupying. When several of them dropped multiple empty .50 caliber shells in front of me, it was clear that they had passed through Kingman on their way here. Although I'd never say it out loud, I was almost... happy...to see most of the posse again. That near felling of joy lasted for 7 minutes and 42 seconds. That's when the Black Hats made their heavily armed enterance and the proverbial shit hit the fan.
I knew the Papergirl was going to get a little squirelly about the Throckemorton trio, but I was completely surprised by Markus' reaction to them. His eyes never wandered from them as he removed his sword from it's scabbard and began to slowly sharpen it beneath the table. The problems really started when a small mutant child that was apparently helping to clean tables and bus orders accidently dropped a tray of drinks. The three townsfolk he'd been serving immediately started to slap and verbally asault the child, who cowered upon the damp floor, sniveling. Tanus's bellowed response of "step away from the child" was no surprise and both he and Auto stepped away from the table and moved toward the group of locals. Our attention was temporarily drawn to Tanus and his chosen fight, the Black Hats momentarily forgotten...by most of us.
Sliding away from the table where the rest of us sat, Markus inexplicably decided that it was time for some holy retribution and away he went...straight toward the heavy ordinance of the three Black Hats. A sword in each hand, he kicked chairs out of his way and made a bee-line toward them. The officer type obviously began to relay some sort of communication via a wireless or mastoid style set-up, as the other two brought their assault rifles to bear on the rapidly advancing Templar. Seconds before Markus was in range, the heavy caseless weapons opened fire, sounding like thunder in the small bar. Quickly assessing the rapidly souring situation, I decided to make myself scarce and blend into the wood work. It didn't help. When the Black Hats started to open up, full auto, I knew we were in for a hell of a fight. To my astonishment and extreme displeasure, not one bullet hit the disfigured Templar as he advance. There couldn't have been any way for the Black Hats to miss at the abysmally short range...yet, they did. The hail of shells went around Markus as if he wasn't there. As for the rest of us, well...Markus had advanced straight from us toward them, and we now found ourselves in the direct line of pain. Shells slammed into the chairs, table and floor around us before we started feeling them ourselves. Creeps took a few in the arm and upper chest, his chair flipping over backwards in a flurry of papers. The Papergirl took one in the arm as she flipped out of her chair and dove toward the nearby stage for cover. El Chupicobra dove to the side in a flurry of overturned tables and chairs, shots slamming into his back. Sitting at the head of the table, I ended up taking several shots to the chest, slamming me into the wall behind me. After the first volley, Markus slammed into the first two Black Hats like a Mack truck out of control. One blade took the left hand Black Hat's arm off at the shoulder, and screaming the trooper fell to the floor. His other blade neatly popped the right hand Black Hat's head from his shoulders in a fountain of gore. Spinning around the table separating him from the last Black Hat, Markus yelled something about the other two downed Hats "only getting in my way". The remaining officer type calmly broke off his transmission and raised his own assault rifle, opening fire. Once again,the Templar seemed to pass through the rain of flying lead like a salmon swimming upstream to spawn - didn't get a scratch. I, however, still found myself in the line of fire as even more rounds stitched across the table and walked up into my chest, shattering bone and the softer stuff behind. A numbness began to spread through my limbs, and it seemed like I was watching the scene from far away. Everything began to move in slow motion. The Papergirl rolled to a stop by the stage, her fist wrapped around a .38 from her bag. Creeps rolled about on the floor screaming that he'd been shot (no shit, Sherlock), as the wrestler tried to extricate himself from a tangle of furniture. Across the room, Auto had pulled his pistols, the sweeping red dots of his targeting sites dancing around the room, trying for a shot around the Templar. The locals he and Tanus had been "chatting" with looked to be unconcious or cowering beneath the table...no sign of the mutant kid. Tanus had his staff up and had begun advancing toward the focus of the fight. Markus himself shifted his weight and came in low beneath the Black hat's rifle with both blades, going for an eviscerating shot. As the blades slammed into the Hat's midsection, the reveberating clang of metal on metal told my fading senses that the Templar's amazing luck had finally run out. Just before the blackness closed in, I saw Markus's body performing a bloody tapdance at the end of the Hat's chattering weapon. At least I'm not going alone, I thought to myself, as I promptly died.
Somehow, I knew it wasn't going to be the end. Just as dark veil of my demise had shrouded me, I found myself in a strange yet familiar place. I found myself sitting upon a mountain of skulls. Each had one very distinguishing feature - a hole through the forehead. The kind a large bullet would make. The rest of what
happened is something I won't go into detail on...yet. I need to mull over exactly what it all means before I'm going to be willing to commit it to the journal. I never know when someone might sneak a peek at my ramblings (caught Creeps at it twice already), and I don't want to risk showing all of my hand just yet. I'll say this much, however. Someone or something made me an offer that I never thought I'd live (or die) to hear. The pay off might be worth more than any amount of trade bait or all the .50 caliber ammo in the world. Again, I was not rushed to answer which meant I'd be going back to the land of the living as one of my least favorite things. A Harrowed.
When I came to, I felt as weak as a kitten and my burst chest looked like something out of a bad sci-fi movie nightmare, my former life still oozing slowly out onto the floor. Only minutes had passed. That in and of itself was enough to give myself or anyone else to give pause. Normally deaders take hours, or more likely days to rejoin their living counterparts. I didn't have time to ponder this long, as the firefight was still going on. Markus was down and most proably dead (serves him right). The Papergirl was nowhere to be seen; most likely hiding. Tanus and Otto were dispensing the usual ultra-violence. El Chupacobra was nursing a new series of chest wounds and the Sage was feverishly scrawling away in one of his various tomes behind an overturned table, flecks of his own blood splattering the pages. When the dust settled, the Black Hats were no more. The Cyborg (what the officer type turned out to be) was down and motionless. Now, anyone with half a brain knows that all Black Hat gear, including Automaton and Cyborgs, are usually rigged to explode if any non-Black Hat without a skull chip messes with them. Tanus noticed a steady beeping sound rising from the downed frame of the borg, put two and two together, and yelled to the bar at large that the thing was going to explode. Everyone began to scramble after gear, and Tanus grabbed the still form of the Templar as I weakly dragged myself to my feet, using my rifle as a makeshift crutch (apparently no one had yet noticed my exit and re-enterance to the land of the living).
Rising from behind the bar where he had been hiding, the bartender moaned "Oh no, not my precious bar" and promptly froze El Chupacobra in his tracks. Unable to resist doing a heroic deed (no matter how misguided and blatantly hopeless it is) old Chupie sprang into action. Amidst posse cries of "What are you doing?!" and "Stop, you fool!", the wrestler heaved the body of the borg onto his massive shoulders and quickly set off looking for a place to stash it before it blew up. The rest of us (including the bartender, I might add) high-tailed it as fast as we could for the street, trying to put as much space between us and the impending kaboom as possible. When last seen, El Chupacobra had been running for the basement of the establishment. Guess we'll never know for sure exactly what happened. The explosion heaved the ramshackle roof off of the structure, as the makeshift walls became odd shaped chunks of howling shrapnel, tumbling us like matchsticks in the wind. Apparently the bartender also had his spook juice/hooch making equipment down in that basement. Heh. Who knew?
As the wreckage was burning, we discovered that the streets were completely empty. Not really a big surprise considering what had just happened. The bartender seemed to know what was going on and lead us to a partially subterranean structure several meters down the street, before skipping off into the shadows. Once inside we saw a narrow shaft to the side of the entrance that went up above ground which was probably used a form of watchtower.
Several minutes passed before something tried to slowly make it's way through the door. "Something" was a good word to describe what stood in the doorway. A tiny pile of glowing lumps and wrinkles nervously made its way down the stairs. Most of us, Tanus in particular, recognized the little freak kid from the bar. Under Tanus's careful questioning, the tiny mutant said something about his mother, but nothing useful seemed forthcoming. Actually, that was just fine with me. I was in to much hurt to be bothered by much of anything anyway.
Several more minutes passed before the sound of vehiciles rumbled down the street and the crackling static burst of a PA system coming to life filtered down into the basement where we hid. The voice of Killian himself echoed through the still air, yelling for me to show myself...saying that I'd pathetically tried to set him up and shouting that the deal was off. So much for my fat contract (damn that Markus...why did he fly off the handle like that?).. His persistence was starting to get on my nerves so I made my way painfully into the watchtower so as to gain the best view of my target. The Papergirl was already there, anxiously watching the proceedings, but gladly gave up her perch so I could work. That's when I saw why he wanted me to show myself. Two HumVees rested on either side of a large military flatbed rig, it's cargo concealed by a bulky tarp. I quickly counted around twenty Black Hats milling about, and the terrifying form of an automaton stood motionlessly ahead of the vehicles, a huge chain gun gripped in its massive claws. My attention was pulled away toward the speaker, however. The pale form of Madame Becky hung from Killian's grasp like a limp rag doll. That was enough for me. I was centimeters away from squeezing the trigger, when the little mutant kid whispered up, "Miss Becky's got a plan".
It must take some time to adjust to being a walking dead, because I actually listened to the little bogger and pulled my rifle back. Whatever her plan was, I had hoped it involved being taken captive and most likely interrogated. Sure didn't seem like anything good could come from the situation she had put herself in. The pure glee in Killian's voice as he carted Becky away was almost... pleasant...and I found that a bit disturbing. It was as if something deep inside me was trying to pull my strings. I had barely noticed that the vehicles had begun to leave when the unmistakable screeching sound of a Raptor cranked up. As two Black hats pulled the tarp away, the flying death machine rose from the back of the rig in a slow fluid motion. The Raptor wasn't the biggest I'd seen...it looked to be a cut down pursuit or scout model, built for speed and manueverability. The twin cannons resting below it's nose didn't look any smaller than what I'd encountered before however, and after a few brief moments of silence, they opened fire.
There was little we could do, and Tanus put an arm protectively around the mutie kid, mumbling that he hoped the townsfolk had managed to hide. None of us had the kind of fire power to take the Raptor down (at least no one was volunteering) and not a single one of us were in the best of shape for a fight. Those of us that hadn't been hurt in the bar had been roughed up in the explosion. Without much of a choice we waited it out and hoped that building we were in would withstand the strain, as heavy rounds pounded the structures around us. We withstood the attack in relative silence, hands clasped to the sides of our heads in vain attempts to block out the thunderous explosions, dust and debris raining down from the ceiling above. Once I saw the Papergirl scream out, unheard over the din outside, but whether from fear or from anger I'll probably never know. After a full ten minutes of aggression the Raptor fell silent. A cautious recon back outside revealed that our building was intact for the most part, but most of the surrounding block was nearly flattened. Of course this meant revenge, and an assault on the Black Hats and all their toys. The problem was that, like I said before, we were woefully underequiped for such an undertaking and most of us sustained a lot of damage in the bar fight. Well, it was a nice, albeit short afterlife...
4/9 - Upon leaving our temporary shelter, we slowly made our way towards the smoking center of town in hopes to find some locals. Our thinking was perhaps we could round up some reinforcements and medical supplies for our showdown with the Black Hats. Once we reemerged, the townies crawled out of their hiding places and began pawing through the wreckage. We approached the old Law dog and what I assumed were the city elders. The little mutant, Clem as his name turned out to be, was nearly glued to Tanus. He never ventured far from our mutant Egyptian demi-god. As the living approached us, little Clem cowered behind the towering Hekant. I doubt that any one would bring harm to the small mutant as long as Tanus was near. As I expected, neither medical supplies nor any volunteers were forthcoming. However, we were supplied with a rough map of the territory in the city that the Black Hats had made their camp in (courtesy of a youngster that served as the village's best ratcatcher..er...hunter) as a plan began to form. Scrawled on the back of an old theater bill, the map showed the area the Black Hats occupied, encompassing roughly a city block worth of space. It also indicated three manholes; two in close proximity to two of the three machine-gun nests and one behind the only building shown to be used by the Hats (the hunter explained that she often found the biggest rats in the old sewer network).
As Fran and I were going over the map and conversing with the kid, the posse were approached by two strangers. The purple robes on the first one obviously screamed Doom Priest (good, heavy artillery was something we needed). The second one was a bit odd. My first impression was that he was some sort of fruity tale-teller, but upon closer inspection of his musical instrument it turned out that it was some sort of weapon. He was either a some sort of Junker or a Junker had made his guitar. Whatever the case, he quickly started to get on my nerves (those that still fired any way). Incessant babbling of quasi-templar musical references. This musician, the Saint of that. That musician, the Saint of this. WAS he a Templar-Junker? That would be something new. We didn't have time to ponder it, however. We were hurting for help with Markus and El Chubacobra gone. The questions could wait. Unfortunately, the situation with the Hats and Madame Becky couldn't. Most of us still had wounds and we needed to be as close to our best as possible to take on the techno-terrors the Hats would throw at us. I just hope waiting a full day wasn't going to be too long. While the remainder of the posse and myself rested or planned our attack, Tanus and Clem (or little C as I came to call him) seemed to have wandered off. Not a big surprise. I thought they probably wanted to get to know one another better. The Papergirl said something about the kid showing Tanus his mom's grave. Whatever. It wouldn't be until later when we would discover why what they were doing was important...and that it probably saved our lives.
First thing the next morning, the plan was ready and we were more or less rested. We would split into three groups, using the sewer system to get up close and personal via access through the aforementioned manholes. Tanus, Otto and the Papergirl would attack from the manhole at the eastern corner of the block. The Purple Robe, the Junker/bard/fruit bat and Dr. Creeps took the manhole directly west. This left the northern-most manhole, which was behind the building, for Fran an I. Clem would stay safely underground. The wheels were in motion. A guide from the village guided us to within 5 blocks of the Black Hat camp and then into the sewers we went. The creepy crawl was far from pleasant, lit by the fitful glow of Clem and some makeshift torches. Cave-ins in several places made for some interesting scrambles. I figure it was about mid-morning by the time we had everyone more or less in position and we swung into action. Granted, there's no such thing as "synchronization" with this group, but hell...they try.
The first blow was struck by Tanus. Popping out of his manhole, he lobbed five bright green blasts into the machine-gun nest closest to his point of attack, stunning the sentry there into submission. Stepping out into the street, he made himself the center of attention, lobbing bolt after bolt into the ranks of the surprised Hats, as heavy caliber rounds sparked off his armor. Meanwhile, Otto made a mad dash the furthest nest from his own manhole, submachine-guns blazing. From our hole, crawling forward through building debris, Fran threw a Slow Burn on the back wall of the structure, blowing a nice hole into it. Emerging behind her, I set up my rifle and looked for targets. Suddenly, however, Fran flaked out (again). A look of abject panic filled her face as she suddenly made a bee-line for the sewer. Her erratic behavior was getting out of control. She was becoming a liability. One that might get someone in the posse killed. I could see nothing that could have drawn such a reaction for her. Trying to cover her "retreat", my thoughts swiftly snapped back to the situation at hand as four Black Hats emerged from a makeshift back door. At last some targets. I took up aim and was ready for business. That's when the voice in my head started. It was high pitched and eerily melodious. Was this my Manitou talking to me? If so, I've never heard of any other deader I'd ever known mention it before. Then again, I'm not privy to all the secrets of the undead...yet. It told me it could make the Black Hat go away. All I had to do was give it permission...let it do what it had to do. I may have been born again yesterday, but I learned long ago that wishes were for fools and little childern. I ignored the voice and punched the Black Hat's metaphorical time card, fifty caliber style. Thus went target number one's head in a chunky red spray. All was going well until act two of Horrible Death Theater began.
I was alone with the remainder of my targets so I was of no help to the others. I figured I just do my best to keep the fellas at the back door busy. I noticed the Papergirl several hundred yards away, trailing "serpentine-like" after Otto, diving from one piece of cover to the next, her .38's gripped in her fists. The sudden roar the raptor's gun snagged my attention, as I witnessed the eerie green beam of Tanus' staff strike it's belly (this time obviously not set to stun). His volley was followed quickly by TWO consecutive nukes (that doomie must be a nut...but then again aren't they all.), and a bizarre sonic blast of cacophonous sound (ah...the loonie with the guitar). Several more beams lanced forth as I refocused and continued dealing death to the remaining Hats on my side. I would've been of little help to the posse in dealing with the mechanical monstrosity anyway (too much armor on those damn things), so as the fourth Hat dropped, I went stealthily into the structure to scout the territory and find Miss Becky...possibly even do some uncharacteristic rescuing. As I made my way in, the sound of metal crashing into the pavement (heh...scratch one raptor, I assumed) was quickly replaced with the sound of servo motors and the whining chatter of an Automaton's chain gun firing. The others would have to do without my services with that matter as well, because my current objective was close at hand.
The beaten, obviously tortured body of Madame Becky hung from the ceiling by steel cables like some pathetic marionette that had been brutally misused and forgotten by some spoiled child. Grabbing the cables, I tried to ease her to the floor, but my efforts proved less than graceful with the heavy weighted steel. With a resounding thud, the battered prophetess hit the floor. As I approached her, she feebly motioned me to come closer. Drawing near, she whispered a dying request. She asked me to take on a contract to sanction her tormentor. I told her I didn't work for free (after all, business is business). She responded by grabbing me roughly and with surprising strength by the back of my neck...and kissed me. That kind of... payment...didn't normally work for me, but something happened as our lips met. It was as if she were giving me the last thing she had to give, and I felt a slight change in my being. A part of the dead emptiness in what passes for my soul seemed to fill and sharpen into focus, and the spirit inside me giggled. I was given a new Harrowed toy to try and figure out. Her last words were simple and to the point: "Kill that bastard Killian for me". Then I felt something leave and her body slumped in my arms. I almost felt sadness at her passing...almost. Easing her cooling corpse to the floor, I decided it was time to return to the rest of the posse.
The fighting was still in full swing as I emerged from the building. Tanus was down and most likely dead, his burnished armor a smoking ruin of holes (too bad...I had a measure of respect for him). A trail of his own fluids ran from one of the machine gun nests to the center of the street...the force of the Automaton's gun had thrown the brave mutant nearly ten yards. The purple robe and Creeps were posed for battle, but both looked tired and drained. It was looking like the rest of us were going to be joining Tanus if we didn't get busy. What happened next was a total surprise. As the Automaton was making ready to lay into us, an eerie, glowing mist engulfed the man machine. It began to shake violently for a few moments and then ceased to function. As the last bits of electronic life flickered away from the Automaton, the strange mist coalesced above it, forming the face of a woman. The spectral visage looked down upon the broken body of Tanus with infinite sadness. Looking back at the rest of us, its lips moved and a soft voice with a simple message was carried to us on the wind, as it slowly faded away: "For my son I thank you. Now...run!"
A high pitched whine sounded from somewhere inside the metal beast, and the posse ran in different directions, leaping behind any cover available. Moments later, the Automaton exploded, taking a crippled HumVee, several unconscious Hats and a good portion of the compound with it. As the dust settled and the smoke cleared, I noticed that the other HumVee was conspicuously absent. A quick question and answer session with the Doomie confirmed my suspicions...Killian had escaped during the fighting.
All in all, things could've gone a lot worse...but could've also gone a sight better. Our hardest loss was the Hekant...Tanus was gone. Creeps started to rattle off a mess of questions about him and his personal effects, but he quickly picked up the vibe from the group that he was treading into territory best left untrod, and he promptly shut up (who said you can't teach an old dog new tricks). As we went through his affects, two envelopes were found. One with Otto's name and one with mine. He had written them in the event that he had passed on. I'm not sure of the details of Otto's note, but my letter was yet another contract in which I was requested to: A. Make sure Clem made it to a place called Armana and B. If for any reason, whether directly or indirectly, Fran did any thing that may bring harm to the child, I was to terminate her ( for the record, Tanus was never involved in either of the instances in which Fran was tripping and set off Arson when it negatively effected the party. He was however informed, in detail, by several members of the posse including myself of her behaviors). Man, I hate kids...especially wrickled up, annoying, glow-in-the-dark ones. Clem had "liability" stamped on his mutie forehead in letters you could see for miles. My payment however, more than compensated...the remainder of his ghost rock...nearly seven pounds of it. I questioned Fran carefully, but she either couldn't or wouldn't explain her actions and hasty retreat during the battle. Hmm. It looked like my dance card was going to be full for awhile...
4/16 - Once the smoke cleared and the death toll was taken (scratch one hekant) ,we commenced the task of looting what Black Hat gear we could take with out having a limb blown off. Amongst the no-touch Black Hat equipment and usual gear (milrats, collapsible shovels, etc.) we found several regular pistols with ammo, including a Ruger Redhawk and a very rare rifle. I had heard that Hellstromme industries had intended to ship the later to Faraway for long term field work (nifty thing used ghost rock vapor as a propellant and had a miniature smelting kit in the stock to cast ammo) , but we never saw them. Needless to say I took possession of the big gun for the time being. There were two other items of interest that I should make note of: two 3 gallon jerry cans of spook juice. Great for trade if you have a decent means to transport them. The Papergirl wanted a water bottle's worth. The rest was a bit tougher to distribute. Fran, the Doomie and I could conceivably use the stuff to rejuvenate after extensive use of our special abilities, but at considerable personal risk. (I would rather use them as explosives, but again there's the transport problem). In the end we ended up slinging the cans together on the same rig we hastily threw together to drag Tanus's corpse back with us. Around this time I noticed the conspicuous absence of the Sage. Nobody had seen him since the thick of the fight, and at first we thought he might be lying wounded or dead somewhere amongst the wreckage. A careful search turned up nothing, however. It seemed to good to be true. My annoying spooky traveling companion had simply disappeared. My momentary feeling of what passed for happiness quickly turned back to my usual funk, however - he'd managed to vanish without paying me for several days of his incessant questioning. Bastard. After giving up the search, we bundled together the gear and Tanus's cooling armored corpse (something in the vicinity of my stomach rumbled and the thought of "spam in a can" came unbidden to mind) and trekked back to the ruins of settlement of Wickenburg.
Upon arrival, we passed the good news of the Black Hats demise on to the good townsfolk (well, the Papergirl did, anyway...have to admit she can put a real positive spin on our haphazard antics). Much rejoicing ensued and the atmosphere of the ruined little settlement became noticeably lighter. As we stood around, debating our next course of action, a group of people rode into town, led by a very familiar figure. Straight-Guns, our undead Texas Ranger rode at the head of a group of four obvious Sec types...in fact, three of them (on horseback) wore the familiar duds and Steelers caps that marked them as Lake Town law enforcement. The remaining individual was riding a motor cycle; not some hobbled together beater, but a genuine Harley Davidson. Fran and I both recognized the insignia on his shoulder and knew that we were being joined by another Faraway alum (a Firewalker...just what the posse needed - another fire bug). Glancing at the bike, I figured part of the spook juice equation was solved. Turns out I made a good call. Seemed that his bike ran off of the juice, so after a bit of trade we were down to one 3 gallon can and back up on some ammo. Kelly quickly assigned the Steelers to the town sheriff (apparently things weren't going too well back in Lake Town...something about radiation and the lake ecosystem... and these three decided to follow Kelly looking for new opportunities), but Hell (the biker) seemed to be his new traveling companion.
After all the other gear was divided within the posse, we then attended to the matter of putting our dead to rest. Along with Tanus, we had to deal with the remains of Madame Becky and little C's mother. According to little C, the ghost of his mother had appeared to he and Tanus the previous day. In addition to the request to look after Clem, she had also asked to him to put her body to rest. Otto was very adamant about fulfilling the dead women's wishes. I thought it strange that such a sadistic homicidal maniac such as Otto should care for the wishes of a small mutant child and a corpse, until I realized that the ghostly image that stopped the automaton was none other than the spirit of Little C's mom. That fact cast the situation in a slightly different light. We buried the bodies on sacred ground (consecrated ahead of time by Tanus...it almost seemed as if he KNEW he was going to die); a few word were said in a ceremony reminiscent of the one we gave the Guardian back in the ruins of Cibola (with the notable difference of Tanus's polite agreement to stay in his grave...like I should talk). I even found it in what passes for my heart to say a little silent something for Becky. I couldn't help but wonder who she was and why her eyes had looked like mine...and wonder perhaps if circumstances had been different if I could have had something there. Unfortunately hindsight is worthless in my experience and regret is for the weak...not worth pondering over for long. If I'd let regret enter into my thought processes on a regular basis, I would have served myself a 50 caliber last supper long ago. Turning our backs on the graves, we headed back to town to gear up for our next destination, wherever the hell that might be. I assumed we were still trying to head for Dango.
Before we could mount up, the townsfolk wished to express their thanks for taking on the Black Hats, but also wanted us to take on an official job. Apparently several children were missing. The ville sheriff was able to provide a few details. Apparently there was an old scav that was a regular trader in the town...a friendly, "grandfather" sort...that always brought back great trade material. Handy with tools, the geezer often did repairs on the ville equipment and went so far as to find specific tech items when needed. He liked the children and would often bring toys, prewar candy and such for them when he came to town. No one was sure where he got his resources from or where he lived. He'd come and go a few times a month without pattern. His last trip seemed to coincide with the arrival of the Black Hats, and when he left, the children (8 all told) disappeared. Little Clem was able to fill in some details from here. Apparently the old man had managed to talk the children into "picking berries" with him outside of town. Clem, being a mutant and the town punching bag, never received any kindness from the old guy either and wasn't asked to go. Let see... old men getting little kids to pick berries a least a day ago. Sounded like classic pedophile scenario to me, and probably equaled dead kids. The townsfolk were willing to pay us in travel provisions, however and with Straight-Guns in the posse again it was a given that we'd go after the missing kids (have I mentioned lately that I hate kids?).
Following the cooling trail out of town, we picked up the track of a horse drawn wagon...apparently the old man's form of transportation, and mighty handy to transport children in. Little C claimed to know the way to what the old man referred to as the "berry patch" (apparently his status as town pariah gave him plenty of opportunities to explore the town environs...he turned out to be quite a good tracker). After an hour or so, we found there was indeed a berry patch (such as it was...more scrub than anything), but no children were to be found. The wagon trail lead away from the patch and up the side of a mesa. We followed the trail up and across the flat top for several hours until it began to wander down once again into a narrow ravine. There was evidence that a gravel topped road had been here at one time, but sand and harsh weather had obliterated most traces of it. The further we traveled into the ravine, the more oppressive the terrain became (how old coot managed get a horse drawn wagon through here was damn good trick...it got a little tight in places). The topography wasn't the only thing that was oppressive. An almost tangible wave of dread was washing over the entire area. My eyes started to deceive me as I snapped off a shot at what I imagined to be a Rolling Stone perched upon a ledge waiting to smash us all to bits. That's when the voice in my head decided to surface again. "Things like this wouldn't happen if you just let me help, Ortho." or "Isn't this place just wonderful? Doesn't it feel just like home?" I must have started to lose my composure, and I must have actually responded to the voice out loud because I was getting sideways glances from several members of the posse. Straight-Guns even reached for his gun at one point. I must maintain control over this little "problem". Shaking the effects of "his" (the thing in my head is most definitely a male) voice off, I forced my self to proceed with a bit more focus. The further we went, the darker the ravine seemed to get. The Papergirl commented on the increasing breeze at one point sweeping through the area, mentioning that it felt like rain. After a few more minutes of travel we came to a sharp bend in our narrow path. Straight-Guns thought it might be a good spot for an ambush, so he went ahead to check it out. We waited for a bit before moving forward. A lack of gun fire gave us what we felt of as a margin of relative safety. What we found wasn't what you'd call heart lifting, however. Straight-Guns' instincts turned out to be correct - this was a perfect place for an ambush. Heavy and light caliber shell casings and one throughly destroyed Automaton in a small blast crater provided mute testimony of a horrible, pitched battle.. The mangled remains of two adults in civies (one female, the other...probably...male) were scattered and splattered about. The biker mused that perhaps we were looking at two adults from the ville that had gone off looking for the kids on their own. The presence of the Automaton added an interesting, though deadly, piece to the puzzle. Was the old man working with the Black hats we'd dispatched? The loon with the guitar (still don't know what the hell his name is) examined the remains of the bot and commented on the fact that it didn't have the same advanced construction as the one we fought back in town. Picking up an intact arm from the thing, he showed how it actually appeared to be cobbled from various other things (Junker Automatons?). No children were to be found, dead or otherwise, in the area so whoever was responsible was most likely ahead somewhere.
Another hour's travel lead us to a box canyon. (why is it always a god damned box canyon) At it's end sat the ruined remains of a modestly sized industrial complex, completely surrounded by a moat of bubbling, green toxic goo. As we ventured cautiously towards it, rusting, weatherbeaten signs showed that it was a small Hellstromme Industries research facility. Our caution quickly turned to panic as the clear skies rapidly began to turn an angry black. A thunder clap sounded followed by sizzling rain. A drop hit the Papergirl on the arm, and she began bitching about hating being right as we all ran for cover, the Hell Storm opening up around us in full fury. Amazingly, we managed to make it to the entrance without tripping over one another or suffering any major injuries from the downpour. An overhang at the front entrance provided enough shelter from the elements for Straight-Gun's horse and the new Syker's bike. A conveniently placed hole in the door (actually, someone or something had melted straight trough it) allowed us access to the complex without us having to make any unnecessary noise. It also allowed the Papergirl to stow her bicycle inside leaving more room for the more valuable transportation outside. Once inside, the eerie level didn't diminish at all - if anything it got worse. Our only source of light was the faint glow given off by little C's mutant frame. Several unmarked doors lined the corridor. An elevator door rested open at the corridor's end. As we moved forward in relative silence, the sound of what we thought was moaning was heard coming from the door to the direct left of the elevator. Now, at this point most of us were on the edgy side. The shadows seem to mock us, and the walls seem to pulse with morbid life. I wanted to get this over with and make as much distance between my self and this place as possible. With weapons poised, the Papergirl volunteered to pull the door open, Little C crouching nearby to provide light. The thing proved to be swollen in it's frame and resisted her efforts. Otto pushed forward to add his strength. As the pair pulled, the door popped open and the pandemonium commenced. A hot wind wailed from the doorway and dark, shapeless mass engulfed Little C thus plunging us into total darkness. Fran and I went into momentary shock as little C was struggling in a fit of panic to free himself from his unknown assailant. Order was restored when Otto (who seems to have fantastic night vision) removed the unknown mass from Clem. With our light source returned, the cause of the attacking horror was revealed to be an old lab coat atop a mop inside a wheeled bucket left in what I believed was once called a janitors slop room. Embarrassment was hardly the proper word to express what I (and most likely Fran) was felling at that moment. A hole in the ceiling of the small closet sized room partially exposed it to environment, allowing the blowing wind (hence the moaning) and a quantity of the hot rain entry into the room. For reasons I neither understood nor cared about, the musician/junker/dead weight took it upon himself to try and make a funnel so the water from the ceiling would drain into the sink. After a torrent of verbal abuse from the posse and his abject failure to do anything but make a bigger mess, we proceeded to the elevator.
The open doors revealed a shaft (sans car) of darkness. A single rope (not cable mind you) hung suspended from two haphazardly placed cross beams at it's center. Fran and I made the climb
down first. We didn't need the aid of some flimsy looking rope seeing as we both knew the discipline of Itsy-Bitsy Spider. At the shaft's bottom, again no elevator car was to be found. The doors leading to the level had been removed (or torn off). Surprisingly, there was power (of a sort) on this underground level...a flickering glow was provided from damaged banks of flourescent tubes overhead. Occasional sparks from the damaged lighting and the dancing shadows they created made the atmosphere even worse than upstairs however. A hallway stretched out before us, strewn with rubble, hanging wire and insulation...definite evidence of some sort of fight. To my delight and horror, four near skeletal remains lay across from one another near hallway's center wearing the unmistakable robes and colors of Silas and his Doomsayers. Upon closer examination of the bodies, we discovered that all of them had perfect, surgically drilled holes in the back of their heads...large enough to remove the brain. If whatever had done this was still down here, it was certainly more than Fran and I could deal with alone. A few moments later, most of the posse ventured into the depths. Only The Paper-Girl and Otto remained top side to watch our backs and keep an eye on our young mutie liability. Four doors occupied the far corner of the hallway, from one of which emanated the quiet hum of running machinery. A loose plan of attack (our speciality it seems) was formed and set into motion. Fran and I would stay back to attack from range. The Doomie, (Fallon as his name turned out to be) and the musical Junker (or Mr. Whothehellareyou! as I came to call him) took the center of the hallway. That left the frontal attack to Kelly and the Firewalker. The smell of fear was thick as the two front men entered the doorway directly at the end of the corridor (the other doors either seemed too obvious - like the "armory" - or proved to be yet another chance at further embarrassment like the slop shop on the floor above).
Only seconds passed before the all to familiar sound of Straight-Guns fanning his pistols and automatic weapons fire sent me forward into action. Fran was a little reluctant at first to move forward with me. The Doomie kept stride as I passed him and Mr. Whothehellareyou!, who seemed to take his merry time of it, actually strolling down the hallway (I knew the guy was an asshole). What I witnessed when I got in the doorway might have scared me to death if I wasn't already dead. The room appeared to some sort of small operating theater. The walls were lined with an assortment of glowing tanks of bottled organs and body parts that gave off the only illumination in the room. There was even a large tank that housed the remains of a whole child-sized body (sans the head). The slaughtered, bullet-riddled remains of what looked like an old doctor laid split in two beneath a bloody swath of gore on the far wall near the terrified group of the missing children we had sought out (my habit for head counting revealed that one was missing...then I remembered the tank...). The dead doc wasn't the source of the horror, however. Standing near a huge hospital style gurney near the center of the room was a ten foot amalgam of twisted metal and flesh, looming like an awoken juggernaut seeking to dispatch any who where foolish to invoke it's wrath. It's entire left arm was a massive cannon with a barrel at least three inches in diameter and it's right terminated in a four finger metallic claw, bigger than my head. Flesh had been peeled away from it's skull revealing bone, hooks and wire, and the vacant, black pits of its eye sockets seemed to swallow the light from the room.
Now, when I was alive, normal procedure for me would be to either plug something like that with as much as fifty caliber punishment as I could from range, or get the Hell out of the way and let someone else deal with it. Maybe I figured I was dead and could take whatever damage the thing could dish out. Maybe the damned voice in my head was getting to me. Maybe I was just plan crazy. Regardless of the reason, I ran right up to the thing and tried to Fleshrip it's ass. Not exactly my best call. All I managed to do was piss it off. In between it firing off hyper velocity railroad spikes (?!) at the posse members who decided to participate in the fray, it tried to slap me around like a red headed stepchild...quite successfully I might add until I had the presence of mind to start dodging. Multiple rounds of ammo were dumped into the man mockery by Straight Guns and The Firewalker, but the thing still kept firing and swinging. Then the Doom Priest got into the action. As a used every ounce of combat training I had to keep dodging the sweep of the thing's mechanical claw, I wondered what the odds of coming back from the dead twice would be....