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Highway To Hell; Patrick makes some new friends. (solo)
Topic Started: Sep 19 2009, 05:09 AM (410 Views)
Harley
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Wastelander
[ *  *  *  * ]
They came for him in the night.

Patrick was around two days out from Bucket Town. He’d woken up with one hell of a hangover and felt like he had to get out of there. No food, no drink and only three bullets in his gun, Patrick came to regret his decision quickly. When nightfall came, Patrick settled down against a small cliff-face, thirsty, hungry and cold. Thankfully, sleep came quickly.

Not too long after that is when they came for him. Patrick had the nagging feeling that someone or something had been watching him from a distance for the better part of his little journey, but had shrugged it off to the heatstroke he was probably suffering from.

There were three figures. Two were pulling him up from the ground, and one held something that looked a lot like a rifle to his face. Patrick struggled, but the two holding him were far stronger than he was. He wasn’t going anywhere, and he knew it.

What the hell?! Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. They’re slavers. Or raiders. Or tribals. Or cannibals! Oh crap, oh crap, I don’t want to be eaten. Please be raiders, please be raiders.

The one holding the rifle lowered it and spoke to him.

“You got a name, stranger?” he said, laughing.

“P-Patrick.” He just barely managed to reply, nearly frozen in fear.

“Nice to meet ya, Patrick.” The man said. He grabbed his rifle by the barrel and clubbed Patrick over the head with it, knocking him out cold.

====
(OOC: It's a short intro, but there is quite a lot to come. Just wanted to get the thread going so I wouldn't lose my train of thought.)
====
"Aim for the head! That's where the pudding is!"

Patrick Reynolds, Wasteland Doctor
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: 3-8-3-4-9-6-7
Level/Species: 3/Human
Karma: -50
Traits: Good Natured, Fast Metabolism
Inventory: [2 Small Hides], [Pipe Rifle], [Rudimentary Revolver], [Switchblade], [Tattered Leather Satchel]
Appearance: Average height and weight. Green eyes. Dirty brown hair tied back in a ponytail. White buttoned shirt, black trousers and brown boots.
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Harley
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Wastelander
[ *  *  *  * ]
Patrick awoke, still slightly dazed. It was still dark, so he assumed he hadn’t been out that long. He was lying on the floor of what appeared to be an old house. Attempting to get up from the ground, he realised that his hands were tied behind his back.

He looked down. The guys who’d grabbed him had taken his six-shooter, but he still felt his switchblade pressing against his right foot.

Well, that’s something. How the hell do I reach it?

He looked around. The room was bare and the windows had been boarded up – assumedly, this was a makeshift holding cell of some kind for whoever took him. The wallpaper was peeling, and so was the ceiling. The room seemed to have a layer of dust that coated everything, and it made Patrick cough instinctively.

It was then he heard voices from the other side of the door.

“Thomas, I think your boy’s wakin’ up.” One man said.

“Wait here, dumbass. I’m gonna need you in a sec.” The other man said.

“Aye aye, cap’n.” The first man said sarcastically.

The door opened, a man walked in. He was tall, with dirty blonde hair and an air of authority about him. Wearing only a tattered leather jacket, faded blue jeans that were ripped in several places and a black cowboy hat, the man looked menacing to say the least. The jacket seemed to have something written on the back, but Patrick couldn’t get a good look.
The man walked over to Patrick, smiling.

“Hey.” He said, and then proceeded to kick Patrick hard, in the chest.

The steel-tipped boot felt like it was digging into Patrick’s chest, completely winding him. He coughed and groaned in pain, on the verge of drifting back into unconsciousness. He stared up at his assailant, who seemed to be having a lot of fun.

Raiders, for sure. Cannibals would’ve eaten me, and slavers wouldn’t risk seriously damaging new merchandise.

The man put his boot on Patrick’s chest, hard. He looked down upon him, thinking. Turning around, he shouted to the man standing outside of the room.

“Scalpel! This bastard’s gonna die before I get to have my fun. Do somethin’ about it, will ya?”

“Sure, boss. I’ll load him up on those painkillers we got last week. Bastard’ll be awake and screamin’ in agony for hours.” The other man said through the crack in the door.

The man in the cowboy hat looked down at Patrick once more, grinning.

“Don’t worry, buddy. Scalp’s gonna fix you up good, so I can fuck you up all over again.”

He left, closing the door behind him.

Fuck. I’m gonna need some divine intervention for this one.
"Aim for the head! That's where the pudding is!"

Patrick Reynolds, Wasteland Doctor
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: 3-8-3-4-9-6-7
Level/Species: 3/Human
Karma: -50
Traits: Good Natured, Fast Metabolism
Inventory: [2 Small Hides], [Pipe Rifle], [Rudimentary Revolver], [Switchblade], [Tattered Leather Satchel]
Appearance: Average height and weight. Green eyes. Dirty brown hair tied back in a ponytail. White buttoned shirt, black trousers and brown boots.
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Harley
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Wastelander
[ *  *  *  * ]
Patrick knew he had to do something. He knew these raiders were going to kill him. Pushing his prone body backward, he propped his upper half up against the wall. His bonds were tight, and he was no escape artist. Things weren’t looking too good so far.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I don’t want to die. What the hell am I gonna do?! Stay calm, stay calm. Alright. I’ll wait for this ‘Scalpel’ fella to come in. I’ll fake sick or something to get him to untie me for a moment. I go for my switchblade and... damnit. I have to kill him. Quick and clean, so he doesn’t scream. Fuck. I can’t do it, I can’t do it... fuck. I have to do it. I’m sorry, dude. You may be a raider but I shouldn’t be the one deciding your fate. I hope he’ll understand. Alright. Fake sick, get untied, go for the switchblade, knife him. I can do this... I can do this...

Patrick heard heavy footsteps. The door opened, and a man walked in. He was different from the other guy – slightly less menacing.
The man was about the same height as Patrick, but a little heavier. He wore a leather jacket with something written on it, much like the guy in the cowboy hat. Underneath that was a dirty grey shirt with a red cross crudely painted on it (presumably, this guy was their medic) and black trousers. He didn’t have any hair, and his face was covered by a faded hockey mask, covered in nicks and scratches.

“Alright, let ol’ Scalp take a look at ya.” He said, placing his first-aid kit down and kneeling beside Patrick.

After taking a quick look at Patrick’s head and bruised chest, Scalpel stood up.

“Eh, you’ll be okay. Heh, at least until Thomas gets back.” He said. “I’ll give you a shot for the pain, and you’ll be alright.”

Damnit, I don’t want to do this. Here goes.

“Err... Scalpel?” Patrick asked. “I’m pretty out of it from that beating your friend gave me. You mind untying me for a bit? I just need to stand up and get the blood flowin' again.”

Scalpel looked at him, expression concealed by the mask. “Okay, but you can’t leave the room. Try anything funny and I’ll kick your ass, then fix you up, then kick your ass again.”

Wow, that worked. And Claire always said I was a terrible liar...

“Thanks, man.” Patrick said as Scalpel loosened the ropes and helped him up.

Patrick stretched out and yawned, all the while eyeing his right boot.

Alright. Do it quickly, do it quietly. Don’t fuck up.

Scalpel was busy rummaging through his first-aid kit, looking for whatever he was going to inject Patrick with. It was time to to put his plan into motion, and pray it would work.

“Hey, dude, I think that Thomas guy is calling you.” Patrick said, trying to sound concerned.

“What? I didn’t hear anything...” Scalpel said, turning toward the door. “I’ll be right back. Don’t touch my shit.”

Scalpel began to walk toward the door, and Patrick seized the opportunity. Reaching down into his boot, he grabbed the handle of the switchblade and slowly pulled it back out, trying to appear casual in case Scalpel could still see him from the corner of his eye.

Lord, forgive me.

He walked slowly toward Scalpel, who had just reached the door. Patrick flicked out the blade and jammed the knife into the raider's back has hard as he could. Piercing leather, fabric and skin, Scalpel froze. Patrick felt the life ebb away from the man as he yanked the blade out from his back. The whole process hadn’t taken more than a few seconds.

Scalpel stood there, frozen. Patrick began to worry if that was enough to kill the big guy. Thankfully, he fell to his knees with a loud thud. Life fading, the man collapsed to the floor. Blood began seeping from the wound in his back.

Patrick had done some bad things, and he knew it. Stolen a beer, robbed the dead, that kind of stuff. He regretted those things. What he had just done, however, was a whole new level of ‘bad’. He’d taken a life.

I’m going to Hell for that. I’m so sorry, Scalpel.

He stood there, switchblade in hand, staring blankly at the corpse of the raider.

“Hey, Scalp! What was that noise? What’s goin’ on in there? You alright?” a voice said from the other side of the door.

Shit.

“Scalp! Open the fucking door!” whoever was on the other side of that door was getting impatient.

“Thomas! Bring yer keys. Something’s wrong in there.”
"Aim for the head! That's where the pudding is!"

Patrick Reynolds, Wasteland Doctor
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: 3-8-3-4-9-6-7
Level/Species: 3/Human
Karma: -50
Traits: Good Natured, Fast Metabolism
Inventory: [2 Small Hides], [Pipe Rifle], [Rudimentary Revolver], [Switchblade], [Tattered Leather Satchel]
Appearance: Average height and weight. Green eyes. Dirty brown hair tied back in a ponytail. White buttoned shirt, black trousers and brown boots.
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Harley
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Wastelander
[ *  *  *  * ]
Patrick heard heavy footsteps and keys jingling. Looking around the room frantically, hoping to see a way out that he missed before. A window, a loose floorboard, anything. There was nothing.

He heard someone turn the handle. The door inched open, but Scalpel’s lifeless body was blocking it. Scalpel was a big guy, and the raiders were clearly having trouble.

“Boss, somethin’s blockin’ the door.” Said a voice.

“I can see that, dipshit.” Said another voice, which Patrick remembered was the man in the cowboy hat, Thomas. “Out of my way.”

Thomas pushed the door as hard as he could, and managed to shift Scalpel’s corpse enough to squeeze in through the opening. He looked at Scalpel, and he looked at Patrick.

“What the fuck did you do, boy?!” he screamed.

Patrick was frozen. He dropped the switchblade when Thomas nearly kicked the door down, and was completely unarmed.

Damnit, I hope they make it quick.

“You killed my god damned medic is what you did.” He took a step closer.

“I should gut you where you stand, you pathetic shit.” He picked up a pair of scissors from Scalpel’s med-kit.

Patrick backed away in fear. “P-please don’t. I’ll do a-anything. Anything.”

Thomas stared at him intently for what felt like an eternity.

“Scalpel... he was a half decent fella’. Pulled more than a couple o’ bullets outta me since he joined my crew. I may be a heartless son’bitch, but I’m no idiot. We got no medic. We got you, though.” He was spinning the scissors around his index finger, thoughtfully.

“As I see it, you got two choices. You can be our new medic, or you can be our new target dummy. Honestly, either one works for me.” He said.

A raider-medic, or a target dummy. Do I really have a choice?

“Well, you’re in luck. I’m no stranger to fixin’ up a bullet wound.” Patrick said, trying to sound confident.

Thomas dropped the scissors back into the med-kit, laughing.

“Good to know.” he said. Thomas proceeded to drive his knee, hard, into Patrick’s stomach, making him fall to the floor.

Patrick coughed and spluttered. “I agreed to your damn deal! What the hell?!”

Thomas laughed again.

“Just remember, friend. You killed one of my boys. I’m not gonna forget that.” He said, walking back toward the door. He patted Scalpel’s limp shoulder and whispered something into his ear. Exiting through the small gap he came though, Thomas closed the door behind him and locked it.
Patrick laid there, no reason to get back up.

I’m still locked in this damn room, and I’m still their damn prisoner. The only difference is I’ve pissed them off. Hell, at least they didn’t kill me.
"Aim for the head! That's where the pudding is!"

Patrick Reynolds, Wasteland Doctor
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: 3-8-3-4-9-6-7
Level/Species: 3/Human
Karma: -50
Traits: Good Natured, Fast Metabolism
Inventory: [2 Small Hides], [Pipe Rifle], [Rudimentary Revolver], [Switchblade], [Tattered Leather Satchel]
Appearance: Average height and weight. Green eyes. Dirty brown hair tied back in a ponytail. White buttoned shirt, black trousers and brown boots.
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Harley
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Wastelander
[ *  *  *  * ]
(OOC: I was going to keep going, but my creativity sort of lost momentum. I'll continue Patrick's predicament in a story at a later date.

Consider this the conclusion, and please lock this thread.)
"Aim for the head! That's where the pudding is!"

Patrick Reynolds, Wasteland Doctor
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: 3-8-3-4-9-6-7
Level/Species: 3/Human
Karma: -50
Traits: Good Natured, Fast Metabolism
Inventory: [2 Small Hides], [Pipe Rifle], [Rudimentary Revolver], [Switchblade], [Tattered Leather Satchel]
Appearance: Average height and weight. Green eyes. Dirty brown hair tied back in a ponytail. White buttoned shirt, black trousers and brown boots.
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Zilabus
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
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Eli "Slim" Ambrose
SPECIAL: 3, 9, 2, 7, 9, 3, 7
Level: 5
Bucket town reputation: -175
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