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We're Gonna Seek, We're Gonna Destroy; Action, and lots of reaction. (solo)
Topic Started: Dec 27 2009, 10:03 PM (287 Views)
Harley
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Wastelander
[ *  *  *  * ]
(OOC: Like the story says, it's been three months. I'm trying to get back into character, so keep in mind that the quality of writing will improve as it goes on. Thanks.)

[Previous Story]

“So, Packie. What’s it been now, three months?”

“Just about, Thomas. Just about.”

“Shit.” He said, laughing. “I remember when we picked your terrified arse up out near that settlement.”

I laughed as well. “I sure as hell don’t. I think I was still pissed from the night before.”

“Well, I’m glad that after all that… unpleasantness, to begin with, we’ve come to an understanding.” Thomas said, staring off into the night sky.

“Me too. Hell, riding with you guys… all the crap y’all get into, it really gives me plenty of opportunities to practice my technique, you know?”

Thomas chuckled as he finished off his beer.

“Whatever. I’m just glad I didn’t have to carry your body all the way to some shallow grave. I’m sure my boys are too, seeing as how I’d make them dig the damn thing.”

The entire group roared with laughter. Whether it was just because the boss made a joke, or because their spirits were generally high, the atmosphere at camp here was certainly lighter than usual.

Most of the time, I’m stitching something up, stopping something from bleeding, and even the occasional cutting of something off. I always wonder if my profession was always so… bleak, before the war. From the pictures in my medical journal, the doctors and the patients always look so happy. With me, I’m always terrified while my patients are screaming bloody murder.

“My boys!” Thomas shouted, standing up. The group fell silent within seconds. “We’ve been partying pretty hard these last few days, and it’s been good fun and all, but tomorrow we get back to business. Supplies are running low, and I can’t have my boys eating fucking radroaches, can I?”

The group roared “No!”

“Exactly! And our new boy Packie can’t be stitching your careless arses up with leaves and barbed wire now, can he?”

Sure I could.

“No!” roared the group.

“Alright. Y’all get some sleep, and tomorrow we hit up that caravan route up that way!” he shouted, pointing over his head. “Now, get some god damned shut-eye. That’s an order.”

Excellent. More supplies, and probably more wounds to use those supplies on.
I’d imagine a few months back and this whole idea would’ve made me sick to my stomach. But… time does change a few things. Never even thought these blokes ‘raided’ for anything other than for the fun of it. I get it now, though. Everyone’s gotta eat. A raider, really, ain’t no different from a whore, a soldier, hell, even a doctor. We do what we’re good at so we have something to wear, somewhere to sleep, something gto eat. That’s why I don’t hate these guys. Hell, they’re even genuinely nice from time to time. Thomas especially. I get why he’s leader. He’s got the charisma, and he’s got the brute force when charisma fails.
He’s right about one thing, tomorrow is gonna be a lot of work. Not just for them, but most likely for me. Gunshot wounds, broken bones.. all part of their trade.

They just so happen to be part of mine.
"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
[ *  *  *  * ]
At first light, Patrick woke up. He looked around, and could see that the others had already put on their jackets (each with the words "Hell Patrol" painted on the back in various colours) and grabbed their guns. It was already warm, but Patrick knew the jackets weren’t for warmth. They were so when the bullets started flying, everyone knew who not to shoot at. Patrick’s thoughts were interrupted as he was unceremoniously kicked off of the rotting tree trunk he spent the better part of the evening trying to get comfortable on.

“G’morning, Packie!” Thomas said, sarcastically. “You’re comin’ with us today. Gear up.”

Wait, what?!

“Tom! Wait up!” Patrick shouted, scrambling to his feet and jogging after the raider.

“What?”

“It’s just... why are you bringing me along, exactly? I thought I made it pretty clear last time that I can’t shoot for shit.”

“Look. On our last run, we lost Hatchet because we couldn’t drag his dumb arse back up to you in time."

The others seemed to slow down after Thomas brought up Hatchet. That whole incident had been the reason Thomas had given them these past three days as "time off".

"I don’t want any more of that shit happenin’, you get me? Don’t worry, you won’t be shootin’ stuff with us... you’ll be more, off to the side, in the bushes? You get me?”

There’s no sense arguing. He does make a fair point, anyway.

“Alright, Tom. I’ll stay outta sight ‘til you give me the word.”

“Excellent. Now, didn’t I tell you to get your god damned gear on? We’re out of here in five.”

Patrick ran back to the tree trunk and started looking for his stuff.

Six-shooter? Holstered and loaded, right side. Check. Knife? Yup, right boot. Check. Bag? Over there. Here we go. Check. Jacket? Shit. Where’d I put it? Shit, shit, shit- oh. There it is. Check. Alright, ready to go. God, if we’re still on good terms, I’m askin’ you to get me back in one piece. Not because I deserve it, but because I’d really appreciate it.

“Packie, move your arse, will ya?!” a nearby raider yelled, waving his shotgun impatiently.

“Sorry, Blue. Had to get my stuff.”

“Whatever, man. Thomas already head out with the others. Let’s see if we can catch up before we miss all the fun, huh?” Blue shouted, laughing.

Yeah, fun.

Blue kicked dirt into the dying campfire, extinguishing it. The two of them jogged out of the camp and joined the others on the way to the caravan route out west.
A solid two hours of walking and complaining later, and the group of seven had reached what looked like a road.

This is a caravan route? Bastards really go out of the way to avoid us, looks like. Can’t be a town for hours in any direction.

Thomas adjusted his cowboy hat as he looked down on the small road from their position. This part of the road was in a small valley, littered with rocks of various sizes. The slopes were rocky enough to offer plenty of cover, but not enough to hinder a quick escape in case this attack went south.

“Boys. This is where we’ll set up our ambush.” he said, grinning. “Blue! You take Packie and hide up over that side. Dave, Jacob, you guys are on this side. When the next caravan pulls up, I’ll stand in the middle of the road with Chem and get their attention. We’ll wave our guns a bit and see if they’ll give up the goods peacefully. If they try anything, you boys make ‘em wish they hadn’t.”

The raiders and Patrick nodded in agreement.

“Excellent. Alright, boys. Y’all know what to do.”

Everyone took their places, and waited.
"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
[ *  *  *  * ]
After three or so hours of waiting, Blue spotted something approaching on the horizon.

“Shit! This is it, Packie!” he hissed excitedly. “Wait here, I’m gonna check with Thomas.”

Patrick stared nervously into the distance as Blue scrambled down the slope, almost tripping over several times. Fifteen or so minutes later, he returned.

“Thomas and Chem saw it too. They had the binoculars.”

“So, what are we lookin’ at, Blue?” Patrick asked.

“Thomas says it looks like a small caravan – three big things, probably Brahmin, pullin’ a small covered cart with a driver, and two smaller things on either side, which are probably mercs or any other kind of blokes with guns.”

Is this really going to be that easy?

“Two guards to three Brahmin? That sounds like poor planning to me.” Patrick said.

Blue laughed. “There’s gonna be more than two. We just can’t see ‘em yet. Either scouting ahead, or they’re actually in the caravan itself.”

Oh, right.

“Has the plan changed?” Patrick asked.

“Nope, Thomas says to sit tight and wait for it to get closer. We’re to keep our damn heads down unless Thomas gives the word or we hear bullets go flyin’.”

Simple enough.

Patrick didn’t say anything, but laid flat beside a nearby rock and stared out to the ever-growing cluster of shadows. Blue took cover in between several smaller rocks.

Head down, six-shooter ready, shoot at anyone shootin’ at you. Don’t hit the Brahmin. Got it.

About ten minutes later and Patrick could hear the Brahmin approaching; the wheels of the cart crushing the gravel beneath it.

“Easy, Packie...” he could hear Blue whisper.

Seconds later, Patrick heard shouting. The cart had stopped. From his position, he had trouble making out the words.

“... the fuck is this guy... hey! Get out of the way!”
“He’s not... fucking tribals... hey! Move or we...”

“... bastard. Fire a warning...”

The shouting ceased as a gunshot rang out from the valley. Patrick heard Blue cock his shotgun. He scrambled out of cover as quietly as possible and managed to reach Blue just as he was about to leave his.

“Wait! It was a warning shot. I heard the guy.”

“Shit. Thanks.”

Patrick began to crawl back to cover as he heard the increasingly familiar sound of an assault rifle.

Those definitely weren’t warning shots. Fuck.

He turned to Blue. Blue was just as confused as he was. He motioned for Blue to come over and they both looked over the rocks into the valley below.

What they saw wasn’t good. Thomas and Chem had their guns trained on the driver and the right-side guard, the left one lying on the ground, not moving. On the other slope, Jacob and Dave had their guns trained on someone who appeared to be standing behind the caravan, out of their view. Thomas was shouting something, the driver was shouting back.

“Give us the fucking Brahmin and whatever you’ve got in the cart and we’ll let you leave here alive!” Thomas roared.

“Fuck you, you raider piece of shit! I earned all this. You’re not taking any of it!” the driver said, with a strong Southern accent. He hopped off his cart, revolver drawn.

“Last chance, mate. You can give us what we want, or take your chances with a gunfight.”

“Fuck you!” the man shouted, raising his revolver to fire.

Patrick heard a shotgun fire. He turned to his left to see that Blue was no longer there. Patrick looked down to see Blue standing near the dead guard, out of sight of the others. His double-barrel was trained right at the driver’s back. The driver fell to the ground, or at least what was left of him. At such a close range, there wasn’t much.

Patrick watched as all hell broke loose seconds later.
"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
[ *  *  *  * ]
A bullet whizzed past Patrick’s head as he fell back to the ground. The gunfire was deafening. He felt his six-shooter still in his right hand. Back to the rock, sitting, Patrick dug through his memory until he could hear Claire's voice clear as day.

Check your gun, first, dumbarse. It loaded? Good. Now, deep breaths. Calm, that's it. Pick your target. Yeah, that'll do. Now, just squeeze the trigger.

Finding what he needed, he opened the revolver, checked that it was loaded, closed it, took a deep breath and slowly stood up.

I’m so dead, I’m so dead. Alright, take aim. No, find a target first. Right. There’s one. Wait, that looks like Chem. That guy? Don’t recognise him.

He fired a shot.

Did I hit him? Fuck.

He fired a second shot.

Yes, I definitely got him that time. He’s down. Shit, where the hell did all those guys come from?!

He fired three more shots, and barely managed to take cover as someone returned fire.

Alright, I think that’s 5 shots so far. Great. One left. Don’t wanna waste it. Don’t wanna get closer. Fuck it, we’re goin’ in.

Patrick crawled out from behind his rock and unceremoniously rolled down the slope. He cursed as he felt a sharp pain in his back.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I’ve been shot. Wait. There’s no blood. Definitely no blood. Oh, right. I hit a rock. That was close.

He peeked out from over his new rock. Patrick could see someone taking cover behind the cart.

Blue!

Blue saw him move and trained his gun on him. “Don’t fucking move, you merc piece of shit.” He said, shaking.

“No, Blue! It’s me, Packie!”

He lowered his gun slightly. “Shit, Packie? You ain’t dead yet? Get over here!”

Patrick dashed from the rock and threw himself at the caravan. He prayed no one was looking underneath it at that moment, or he’d be pulling a bullet out of his leg, or somewhere worse.

“Well... are we winning?!” Patrick asked, gasping for air, six-shooter clutched tight.

“Fuck, I dunno. I’ve been keepin’ my head down.” He said. His eyes grew larger. “Shit, don’t tell Thomas that.”

Patrick forced a laugh. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been up on the slope the whole time. Think I hit a few guys.”

The gunfire ceased.

“Wait here. I’m gonna check it out.” Blue said, slowly edging out from behind the caravan.

Patrick waited, shaking. Blue gave him the “all-clear, let’s go” wave and Patrick walked out from behind the caravan, holding the revolver with both hands. He could almost feel the colour drain from his face as he gazed at the scene before him.

He counted at least half a dozen corpses. The driver, the guard from before, three guards he couldn’t see before and what looked like Dave. The guards were lying against the other side of the caravan, and Dave was face-down at the bottom of the opposite slope. He looked up and saw what must’ve been Jacob, sitting with his head in his lap, gun tossed to the side.
He saw Chem lying against the slope, thankfully, alive and breathing. It looked like he’d taken a bullet in his left shoulder. Patrick noticed a slight movement to his right as Thomas climbed out of the back of the caravan, dragging someone with him.

“Packie, you didn’t die! Have to say, I’m honestly surprised.” He said, laughing. He looked at Blue and Chem. “Boys, have a look at what I found!”

He threw the guard to the ground and pointed his sawn-off shotgun at the man’s head. From the looks of it, Patrick figured that this caravan guard couldn’t be any older than twenty.

“This little fucker, boys, is the one who shot ol’ Davey.” Thomas shouted.

“What? No way! I’ve been hiding in the caravan the whole time!” the guard screamed.

Thomas laughed. “Regardless, you’re one cowardly motherfucker. I know what we can do. Prove that you didn’t shoot Dave. You got five seconds.”

The man’s eyes grew wide, his lip trembling. “But... but... I don’t know how! I didn’t do it, I swear! Please, man, just let me go. I’ve got a family...” he started, but was interrupted as Thomas cracked him over the head with the handle of his sawn-off.

“Piece of shit, I don’t want your life story. By the way, your five seconds is up.”

“No, please... don’t kill me... I’m fucking begging you, please don’t...!” the man pleaded.

Thomas lowered his gun. “I have a better idea. Packie! Get over here.”

Fuck.

“Yeah, Tom?”

“We never did have an initiation for you. Just your luck, huh? This is a perfect opportunity! Kill this piece of shit.”

“But... but...” Patrick started.

“Hey, boss! Don’t he gotta use a knife?” Jacob asked, having just finished navigating the rocky slope.

Seems to be over whatever was bothering him. Then again, nothing cheers Jacob up like watching someone get horribly mutilated.

Thomas looked at him angrily. “I think we all know exactly what Packie here can do with a knife.”

No one dared look up at him after that.

“No more stalling. Do it, or I’ll make good on my promise and put you in that shallow grave, boy.”

Patrick held his revolver at the guard’s head, staring into his terrified eyes.

I don’t think I can do this. I have to, but I can’t. Scalpel, he was a matter of self-preservation. Those other guards... they shot at me first. But this guy, you could barely call him a man. He’s still just a kid. And he’s not armed. Just lying there, praying that I don’t have the guts to do what Thomas just told me to. Can I do this? Scalpel wasn’t armed, come to think of it. I killed him. I don’t kill this guy, Thomas kills me. It’s self-preservation. It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t have to be. All bullshit aside, it’s me or him. Fuck. God, just add this to the list of things I’ll be payin’ for in Hell.

Patrick stared into the kid’s eyes. Those terrified, wide eyes.

“Sorry, kid. It’s you or me.” Patrick said, justifying his actions to himself just as much as the guard.

He said nothing. He closed his eyes and waited, crying quietly.

Patrick squeezed the trigger. One last shot rang out through the valley that day.
"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: That brings this chapter to a close. Zil or whoever, please lock this, and make sure my karma level plummets after that one. :P)
"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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Run4
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Iron Crow
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Harshness. Killing young folk, that's what -200 Karma? No? :lol:

Right, on to rewards/results:

Quote:
 

Searching the cart and guards, loot is divvied up. You get the following:
Level Up x 1

Pipe Rifle x 1 "This thing used to be a Springfield M1903. Then someone broke the internal magazine, forcing subsequent owners to load each round manually. What an asshole."

Small Hide x 2 "So what if it used to be a Caravan Guard's fur coat?"

Karma: -50
[align=center]Posted Image
HenchmenF
 
"Anyway. Then me and CP were like "Lul, wut?" and then Run had to step in and use his e-peen as a riot baton and then Doffa sorta left."

Caleb Wolff, Level 7 Tribal Ranger. (Inventory)
Jackal, Level 5 Glowing Ghoul. (Inventory)[/align]
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