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Finding a fix
Topic Started: Sep 25 2016, 06:59 PM (193 Views)
azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The town wasn’t much to look at, but at least the mess of tents and occasional building helped block some of the wind. Spike glanced around the main street, taking in the layout, trying to commit it to memory, but was immediately distracted by the sight of a well. He grinned wide, felt his bottom lip split open, and swore. He poked at it with his tongue and sucked up a drop of blood.

He jogged over and cranked the bucket up, grabbed it and started guzzling like he hadn’t had a drink for a week. Frankly, it felt like it, but in reality had probably only been a day. The lukewarm water dribbled down his chin as he sucked it down, leaving a few streaks in the grime and dust on his skin. Belly sloshing, he dropped the bucket and wiped a forearm across his mouth.
Much better.

He flopped down and leaned against the well, rummaged around in his pockets for a cigarette, and came up empty. Shit. Flat broke again. He scratched idly at one of the sores on his arm, his skin was starting to crawl and he desperately wanted a fix. Now where the hell had he put his psycho?

He searched around his pockets again, remembered he’d taken the last of it yesterday, and slammed a fist angrily on the ground.

“Son of a shit-sucking bitch,” he grumbled. “Someone around this pisshole has to be hiring, get your ass up and find them.”

He wasn’t looking forward to doing any work sober, and the withdrawals were going to make his focus even worse than usual. Spike let his head fall back against the well and stared into the dingy sky, watched a bird for a second, got bored, and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

Shit. Still out.

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He needed to get up and start asking around about work. Or he could just kick someone in the shin, that could be fun. Where the fuck had he put his psycho? Oh hey, that tent had a stain that looked just like a mole rat. He needed a cigarette.

Spike pulled his brimmed leather hat off and pushed a few lank strands of hair out of his face. He poked the split in his lip again, that was going to be annoying. He’d feel better about it if he could just get his hands on some chems, he’d take anything at this point, didn’t matter how or what it’d been cut with, he just needed to take some of the edge off so he could focus.

God, he was tired. How long had it taken him to reach Bucket Town? He didn’t remember. Wasn’t important. What did matter was getting a fix. Or a drink. Where were his goddamn cigarettes?
Spike slapped the hat back over his head, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. He shut his eyes and sighed again, maybe he’d just take a nap and try to figure things out after he’d rested. His stomach growled at him, even though it was slightly distended from all the water he’d just chugged. Oh, right, he hadn’t eaten for the better part of a week. Oh well, not important.

“Shut up,” Spike told his belly, gave it a firm poke. “The hell do you want me to do about it?” Yeah, he needed a nap. He pulled the hat over his face and took his switchblade out of his pocket, keeping it in his fist as he crossed his arms. Get some sleep, then…he’d been meaning to do something, he was pretty sure it was important, but he was too tired to think about it long. He slipped into a state of partial consciousness, ears on alert for any potential trouble.
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
He dozed on and off for an hour or so. Spike took a brief notice of every person to walk past, gaging their footsteps, if they slowed at all, but no one seemed to take any real notice of him. That was mildly disappointing, but considering his current state, probably for the best. He was starting to shake, sharp teeth nibbled under his skin, nausea was making him regret drinking so much water. He contemplated making himself throw up, but the taste of bile was one he found especially unpleasant.

If he couldn’t find anything soon, though, there wouldn’t be much choice in the matter.

He’d been sitting too long. He could feel the bones in his ass digging into the ground, was pretty sure his legs had fallen asleep, and wasn’t looking forward to the needles that were going to follow once he got some circulation going again. Spike swore under his breath and hefted himself up. Yep, he had two blocks of wood under him, barely functional enough to hold him upright. He gave each thigh a few firm punches, willed them to get back to work. He didn’t have time for this shit. It wasn’t new, he’d noticed his limbs going numb more and more often, but that didn’t make it any less aggravating.

He just needed a fix, and he’d feel better.

Spike braced himself on the well and sighed heavily. He shook one foot, and flinched when hot static shot through every muscle in his leg. Gritting his teeth, he did the same to the other, resisting the urge to let them collapse out from under him. Not great. He wondered briefly what could be causing the numbing, but decided almost immediately that he didn’t care. All that mattered was finding some chems.

Wait, he was broke.

Shit.

Where the hell had he put his cigarettes?

Spike tucked his switchblade away and pushed his hat farther down his forehead, rolled his shoulders once, and took a few experimental steps. The biting static was still shooting through his legs, but at least they were more or less steady. He couldn’t tell how much of the shaking was due to the pins and needles versus hunger and mild withdrawals, but that didn’t matter. What did was finding some chems before it got worse.

And a cigarette. God, he wanted a cigarette.

Spike started whistling tunelessly through his teeth, striding aimlessly through the tents. He had to think. Needed to focus. There was something he was missing, it was nagging at him almost as persistently as the teeth under his skin. He scratched hard at one arm, ended up ripping off a few scabs, ignored trickles of blood that started running from the freshly-opened sores. Something he should remember. He needed a cigarette. Where the fuck had he put them?

He wandered back the way he’d come, squinted at a few signs as though he’d be able to make any sense of them. Think, think, where to look, who to ask- he needed to get his bearings, the damn mess of tents was getting him turned around. He was pretty sure he’d passed the same one five times at this point, but his thoughts were too scattered to be sure. He was hungry. Where were his cigarettes? Pull out the switchblade and spin it through his fingers, back in the pocket, needed a fix needed a fix needed a goddamn fix.

Spike poked his head into one of the tents, grinned toothily at the woman inside. “Hey, got any psycho?”

She gawped at him for a second, her face a mask of total disbelief; after a brief staring match, she yelled angrily, picked up an empty can, and threw it at him. “What the fuck are you doing in my tent?”

Spike tilted his head just enough to let it breeze by, then frowned at the woman. “Christ, you don’t have to be a bitch about it, you got anything or not?”

“Get out of here, goddamn junkie!” She picked up a kitchen knife and waved it threateningly in his direction. “I’m not telling you again!”

This wasn’t getting him anywhere. Some people could be so rude. “So…is that a ‘no’?”

He could see nervousness on the woman’s face, the way her knuckles were white around the knife’s handle and the distinctive tremble in her knees, but she rushed at him anyway. Spike was mildly impressed. Brave of her. She swung the knife at him,

slow, God they were always so slow

his arm snapped out, lightning fast, and grabbed her by the wrist. He twisted himself around her, got a hold on her other arm, and wrenched them both behind her back. She screamed and started struggling furiously, trying to break loose. Spike rolled his eyes.

“What kinda shit is that, come at me like I’m trying to rape you or something, I didn’t do anything!”

“Let go of me!” She screamed. “Get the fuck off!

“Bitch,” he stared down at the top of her head, could barely see the whites of her wide eyes, “You pulled a knife on me.” He twisted the woman’s wrist brutally, the knife fell from her fingers and clattered to the floor. “So hey, you don’t have anything on you, do you?”
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The woman was still yelling. “Get off me, get the fuck off!

Spike winced. She was starting to give him a headache. “Oh my God, calm your tits, I didn’t do anything!”

She screamed again, more angry than frightened, still struggling to break loose. Spike let out an aggravated sigh and twisted her arm farther up her back. “If you’ll just listen for a second-”

“Motherfucker!” She brought one foot up, then slammed it onto his toes. His shoes, which hadn’t been much to look at even before the months of wandering, offered no protection from the heel of a rather impressive pair of boots. He yelled in pain, lost his grip; she spun around, and Spike darted back just before her knee slammed into his crotch. She snatched up the knife

Shit, he’d forgotten about that- focus, asshole

and started swinging furiously. Spike weaved and dodged around the blade as it whistled through the air. “I just wanna know--” he had to pause and twist hard, she’d managed to catch his shirt with the tip of the blade, making another rip in the tattered fabric, “-Jesus, watch it!”

This was getting ridiculous. He dropped into a crouch, leaned back on one hand, and whipped a long, lanky leg out. He caught her behind the ankles and knocked both feet out from under her, back on his own in the time it took to blink.

She hit the floor, lost her grip on the knife, which skittered a few feet across the ground. She was breathing hard, teeth bared and eyes wide as she struggled to get back up. Spike kicked the knife out of reach and was straddling her in an instant, grabbed both wrists and yanked them over her head, pinning her with his knees. She tried to kick him, still screaming like she was being disemboweled. Spike grinned wide, baring sharp canines, his hair hanging down and nearly brushing her face. Now she was really mad, but in all fairness, he was getting there, too.

“So,” he had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the noise, fuck it was starting to grate on his nerves, “you wanna calm down, or am I gonna have to choke your ass out? Coz I gotta tell ya, lady, you’re starting to piss me off.”

“Fucking asshole! Goddamn son of a bitch, get off me, I’ll fucking—”

Spike wrapped the long, bony fingers of one hand around both her wrists and the others around the woman’s throat, cutting off her air. Now the anger on her face was fading away, replaced by panic as she struggled to get a breath. Spike raised an eyebrow at her, still wearing the manic grin. His ears were picking something up outside, part of him knew he needed to give it some attention, but he was busy, damn it.

“Let’s try this again.” He leaned forward, put the slightest bit more pressure on her windpipe. As tempting as it was to do some permanent damage, he really needed information, and people with crushed throats didn’t give it out well. “I need some chems. Where does a guy find them in this pisshole?” He released his grip enough to allow her a small, harsh gasp of air. The woman writhed and choked, throat convulsing under his hand. He cocked his head at her. “Like, seriously, I’ll take a piece of afterburner, a hit of mist, whatever.”

She glared at him, took another labored breath. “Go…find…” she choked out, “a fucking…cactus…” One hand flipped him off, “-and shove it…” another painful gasp, “-up your dick.”

Spike felt his mouth fall open slightly, eyebrows go up in surprise, then threw back his head and cackled. “Goddamn, girl, you’ve got some balls! You wanna shoot up with me later? Let me know where to find some shit and I’ll totally hook you up.”

She snarled, lips starting to turn a light shade of purple, face bright red, a few veins popping out of her temples and forehead. “Fuck you!”

He considered it briefly. She wasn’t much to look at, honestly; short-cropped hair, face and body more angles than curves, the lines etched across her face suggested that the scowl was more or less permanent. Still, he had to appreciate the attitude. “Thanks anyway, doll. I’m not really feeling it right now. Get me high, though—”

Oh, shit. That noise he should have been paying attention to was almost on top of him. It was the sound of numerous pairs of feet pounding dilapidated asphalt, shouting voices, at least four of them. Too many to deal with right now. He was too shaky, too out of sorts. Spike sighed, released the woman’s throat, and patted her cheek. “Sorry, babe, I gotta bolt. Seriously, I’ll try and find you later. We should hang out.”

He jumped to his feet and pulled out his switchblade, snapped it open, and cut a long gash in the back of the tent. He slipped through it just as two men burst through the front flap, guns raised. Spike fell forward into a roll as they fired. A few bullets whizzed over his head, he scrambled back to his feet, and took off in a dead sprint. He flew through the maze of tents, cackling wildly as more bullets peppered the space he’d very recently occupied.

Well, that had been a massive waste of time. Adrenaline was coursing through him, ears ringing from the gunshots, and he was starting to jones hard. Probably a good idea to lay low for a while. He ran for the edge of the settlement, one hand clutching his hat, the other still holding the switchblade. Spike threw a brief glance over his shoulder. He didn’t see any pursuers, but if they were willing to waste bullets on him, were probably also willing to put in the effort to try and sniff him out.

‘Try’ being the key word. Without slowing down, Spike scrambled over a low wall of debris, hit the ground running, and made for some of the more decrepit ruins. Goddamn it, he just wanted a fucking fix.
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
The surrounding area was a mess of pre-war ruins, mostly rubble, a very few having survived the ravages of time. Spike made for one of them, ducked through a partially collapsed doorway, leaned back and caught his breath while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He ended up sliding down the wall and resting his head on his knees. The shaking was getting bad enough that he was having trouble staying on his feet. Spike sighed, pulled off his hat, and tried to run a hand through his hair; the mats didn’t let him do more than tug it painfully.

He could still hear shouting, close enough to catch the occasional word, not so close that he paid any real attention. He clasped his hands behind his neck and let his mind wander freely, too worn down to bother focusing on any single thought. They bounced back and forth at random, most half-formed and nonsensical, always coming back to the fact that he felt like shit.

Toes still hurt, shoes were coming apart, needed to fix-

Headache.

So stupid how birds would go in circles, dumb assholes, come back when stuff was already dead, waste of time-

Teeth under his skin.

God, he hated Cram, so slimy, with that metallic aftertaste, might as well eat cold puke off a battery, now fresh Radstag-

Whole body shaking.

What the hell was the deal with those poles by the roads? Should try to set one on fire someday, sit and watch it burn-

Nauseous.

Might be potential for scavenging in here, find something to trade for chems, or even just information, figure out where the junkies hung out-

Hot needles in his fingertips.

Wondered how far he could throw a rock; it’d have to be big enough to have momentum, not too big, though-

Needed a fix.

That woman was a real spitfire. Kind of a bitch, but he could work with that, should have asked what kind of booze she liked-

Tired.

Spike gave his head a brisk shake, then slapped his hat back on. His eyes had adjusted to the dim interior, letting him get a look around at…really nothing. The building was basically an empty shell, everything of use or value long gone. Not surprising, this close to a settlement, but still disappointing. He’d take a look around anyway, people had a tendency to overlook some crazy shit, and besides, the voices were getting closer. Hefting himself up, Spike had to catch himself on the wall when a wave of light-headedness left him with white spots in his vision and ringing in his ears. Or was that left over from the gunshots? Didn’t matter. He took a long, slow breath and let it out carefully. The last thing he needed was to fall flat on his face in an unfamiliar place.

That sprint had cost him. Part of him knew he really, really needed to eat something. How many days now? He almost dismissed the thought, already bored with it, but the last time he’d gone over a week without food he’d ended up passing out. Think. Focus. Four days? No, six.

Oops.

Blinking heavily, he took another slow breath as the spots faded and looked around more carefully. The room he was in seemed to be a foyer of some sort, two doorways on the far wall leading off into darkness. He poked his head into them; one had been a bathroom, the toilet bone dry and broken, sink missing. The other opened into a long hallway, several more doors branching off down the length. Spike cocked his head and listened carefully, sniffed at the musty air. Vermin loved places like this, and if he could catch something, a mole rat or even a few radroaches, he’d have food and possibly a pelt or two.

All he could hear were the voices outside, didn’t smell anything but dry rot and decay. No rotting meat, no scat, no signs of nests or anything having been chewed on. Goddamn, it just wasn’t his day. Really quite strange, now that he thought about it; why would critters ignore a perfectly good abandoned building, it was an excellent hidey-hole, unless—

He grinned wide. Unless it wasn’t abandoned. Spike crept silently down the hallway, picking his way carefully past a few piles of debris, every sense on full alert. He knelt down for a second and squinted at the ground; as he’d suspected, there was a trail through the dust, and he could just make out the edge of a recent footprint, human, not very heavy- either a woman or a lighter man. He made his way past several doors, taking a moment to inspect the rooms. They were either empty or filled with the collapsed remains of their ceilings, no luck there. At the end of the hall, however, a crude ladder made of lashed-together pipes and bits of rebar ran up to a hole in the ceiling.

Interesting.

Spike tilted his head, turning an ear toward the hole, and took a moment to smell the air. Still the same dry rot, musty plaster, and dust, but now he was picking up a whiff of something else, pungent and skunky. Above him, a match flared. Someone started coughing loudly, and the smell intensified. He held his breath, shut his eyes, and listened closely, pinpointing exactly where the noise was coming from. About ten feet to his right, five behind. A bit close for comfort, if they had a gun. Fortunately for him, Torch smokers weren’t usually the type to startle easy, and even if this guy did, he was going to be very slow on the draw.

Spike put the switchblade in his teeth and gave the ladder a closer look. Being crudely put together, it was going to be noisy as hell, and he didn’t feel like bothering with it, anyway. He gave the edge of the hole a quick examination, seemed sturdy enough, and jumped straight up to grab the ledge. Spike hauled himself over, got his elbows under himself, grinning around the blade at the old man who was giving him a thoroughly confused, sleepy look.

“Whoa there, Daddy-O, where’d you come from?”

Ah, Torchers. Not really his kind of people, too lazy, too slow, physically and in the head. Still, it was going to make this almost painfully easy. If he weren’t pretty sure he was a few hours away from collapse, Spike would have been disappointed. He took the knife out of his teeth and spun the handle through his fingers.

“Oh, not much, cat.” He hauled himself all the way over, crouching in the small attic space, and scrambled forward before the Torcher could so much as blink. He got around behind him, grabbed a handful of dirty, matted hair, yanked his head back and put the switchblade to his throat. “Just need all your stuff, cool?”

The man made a noise of surprise, but Spike didn’t hear any fear in his voice. “Damn, son, watch the pipe!” Seemingly oblivious to the knife against his jugular, he raised a small wooden pipe to his lips, lit another match, and took a long, deep drag. He held the smoke for a moment, then let it out in a pungent cloud. “You need to relax, my man. Wanna hit this?”

God, yes.

Spike narrowed his eyes, brought his head around to give the Torcher a sideways look. “Don’t try anything funny, Pops. Not unless you want it this—” he pressed the flat of the blade a little harder into the man’s neck, “-in your eye.”

The man chuckled stupidly. “Relax, boy. Ol’ Herman got some good jokes, though. Sure you don’t wanna hear the one about the Brahmin and the clergyman?”

Spike took the knife away, released the man’s hair, and leaned back on his heels. He took the proffered pipe in one hand and a match in the other, keeping the switchblade out. He really shouldn’t, he knew that Torch always made him sleepy. Still, he was going to rob the guy anyway, might as well get blitzed with him first.

“Ah, what the hell.” Spike struck the match to life and took a long, hard drag. He pulled in a little extra air to get the maximum amount of smoke in his lungs, hissed briefly through his teeth. “How’s it go?” he choked out, not releasing any smoke, not yet. It burned his lungs, begging to be coughed out, but not yet. He really needed to get high.

“Well,” Herman leaned back on one hand, took back the offered pipe, “a priest is walking into town, see?”
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
Offline Mini Profile Goto Top
 
azstarael
Member Avatar
"Got a light?"
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
“-and then, get this,” Spike wasn’t sure how much time he’d spent with Herman, and at this point, couldn’t care less, “she tells me to find a cactus,” He paused to take another long drag off the pipe, “-and shove it up my dick!”

Herman threw back his head and laughed. “Dames, eh? You steer clear those crazy ones, boy. Get you in a world of trouble.”

Spike grinned, smoke trickling through his teeth. “Nah, my man, those are the best ones.” He leaned on one hand and tilted his head back, releasing the smoke with a few hacking coughs. “Just gotta—” Damn, this was some good stuff, he was having trouble catching his breath, “-know how to work ‘em.” Splaying all the way out, he spun the switchblade leisurely through his fingers. “Or get out of the way. Mostly that.”

“You’re a kooky cat.” Herman fished around in his pocket, pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes. “How’s that torch treatin’ ya?”

Spike contemplated. It was harder to do than usual. His brain was in a haze of mild euphoria, everything taking on a dream-like quality, body light yet decidedly heavy. Not his preferred high, but it was a damn sight better than being sober.

“Nice shit, Her-my-man.” He stared intently at the pack of cigarettes. “Can I bum one of those?”

“Be my guest, brother.” The old man flicked one at him; Spike snatched it out of the air, deftly catching it between two fingers. He grinned wide, flicked the cigarette away from his forehead in a mock salute.

“I like you, old-timer. Say,” he lit it with a long, satisfying drag, “where’s a guy find some psycho around here? I’m jonesing pretty hard.”

Herman raised an eyebrow and gave him a stern look. “That’s some crazy shit, boy. Gonna end up in a ditch somewhere, you keep it up.”

Spike scoffed. “We’re all gonna end up in a ditch someday.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Herman muttered. “Well, there’s some characters on the other side of town, raunchy bunch, but they’re probably holdin’.” Spike got another stern look. “You watch yourself around them. You want ol’ Herman’s word, steer clear. Just as like to get a knife in the gut as a hit in the arm.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Thanks, dad.” He grinned, stupid and loopy. “I can handle myself.”

The old Torcher grinned back. “Yeah? ‘Cause you’re lookin’ a little worse for wear there, kid.”

“It’s been a long couple of weeks.” God, the cigarette was divine, even if it was making the light-headedness worse. Didn’t matter, he didn’t feel like moving, anyway. “Real bitch of a walk.”

“Where’d you come from?”

“Northeast, pretty close to the mountains.” He was tired, felt his eyes trying to slide shut of their own accord. No time for that, he’d wasted enough as it was, needed to find that psycho before he crawled right out of his own skin. The torch was nice, but it wasn’t going to do the trick for long.

“You got family up there?”

Spike grinned, baring his canines. “You ask a lot of questions.” He liked Herman well enough, always had to appreciate someone sharing their stash, but paranoia was prickling at the base of his skull. Couldn’t trust anyone, not really, that’s how you ended up with a bullet in your spine.

“Ain’t had anyone to shoot the breeze with for a while.” Herman pulled a little packet out of his shirt pocket, took a pinch out of it, and stuffed it in the pipe. “Been nice having the company, torch is better when you share.” He held it out. “You want another hit?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Much more and he’d fall asleep where he sat. Besides that, he was getting desperately hungry. Spike cracked his neck and started picking his teeth with the knife, scraping off some of the thick scum that had formed while he smoked. “Cool hanging with you, though. I really needed that.”

“No sweat, kid.” The old man lit the pipe, the light from the match throwing stark shadows over his wrinkled face. “Come see ol’ Herman any time. I always got smoke.” He paused to hold his breath for a few seconds before releasing it. “Just no crazy chicks, ya hear?”

“Holy shit, man,” Spike snapped the blade shut and tossed it into the air, enraptured by the way it spun until he finally caught it, “did I tell you about this one I met today?”

“Cactus girl?” Herman grinned, eyes half-closed. “Her, neither.”

Her eyes had been hazel. “I like her. Think I’m gonna ask her out.”

“Daddy-O,” Herman shook his head slowly, “you watch yourself. The chem’s’ll kill ya. A dame like that, just make you wish for it.”

Spike flapped a hand lazily at him. “Piss off, when’s the last time you got laid?”

“Watch that mouth, boy. Gonna get you shot.”

Yeah, it had. Spike laughed, flicked the blade into the air again. “I’m not hearing an answer. That long, huh?”

“No crazy chicks, you little shit.”

“Yeah, yeah, be a wet rag about it.” Spike sat up, took another drag off his cigarette, then snuffed it out and tucked the remains in his pocket. “Seriously, thanks for smoking me out, buddy. I owe you one, I’ll make it up next time we hang.”

“Sure thing. You gotta beat feet?”

Spike nodded. “Got some boys to see about some chems.” He rolled up, crouching in the small space, and swung his fist in a vicious uppercut. He caught Herman right under the chin, snapping his head back; the old man crumpled and hit the ground. Spike snatched the pipe out of the air as he dropped it, set it beside him, careful not to spill anything. He thought for a second, then fished his own battered lighter from his pocket and set that down, too.

“Sorry, pal. I’ll pay you back in full when I can.”

With that, he started searching around, scrounging up a few cans of food, half a bottle of some kind of liquor, and a roll of duck tape. He taped up his shoes, took a long swig off the alcohol, and pocketed it. The single med-X, he left alone, though he did nab a few extra cigarettes out of Herman’s pack. He stuck them under his hat, tilted it briefly at Herman, and slipped back through the hole. He hit with a light thump and nearly fell over, took a few staggered steps, and giggled stupidly.

Damn, the booze on an empty stomach might not have been the best idea.

FIN
Spike, level 5 (Hardcore Mode)
S:4 P:9(-1) E:7 C:2 I:4(-1) A:10(+1) L:5
Perks
Finesse | Small Frame | Chem Reliant
Equipment:
Switchblade | Rudimentary revolver | x5 Throwing Knives (GC) | Scary Terry Knife Gauntlet
Armor:
Duster coat (Poor Condition)
Reputation
Bucket Town (-30)
Claw (Companion)
S:2 P:7 E:9 C:3 I:9 A:8 L:2
Perks
Jinxed | Hunter| Marksman
Equipment
Junk flinger | Kitchen knife (Poor Condition)
Armor
Desert Clothing (Poor Condition)
Nicholas Stahley, level 1
S.4 P.8 E.3 C.6 I.8 A.4 L.7
Perks
Improv Artist | Perfectionist | Fast Learner
Equipment
Homemade Shotgun | Zip Gun
Armor
Dirty Pre-war Clothes
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SirGamer101
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Dancer of the Boreal Valley
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Lol, you got (not even) Jr. Modded!
Alright so, this was a relatively short piece, and I think you executed it perfectly in sync with your character. I loved all of the breakaway sections where he just stops his own line of thinking: because you are holding true to your own character's trait of scatterbrained, and a lot of new people don't do that.
I was genuinely surprised and had to reread the section where Spike turned on Herman. It was just what the rp needed, something to break up that section into a little bit more useful for the character. I wasn't expecting the turn of events at all, and that is a sign of good form.

Now, you did very few things wrong in this piece, like when Spike was fighting the woman, she could of had a bit more actual dialogue than just cursing a bunch. Only a small thing.
Now onto what you want to hear about:
REWARDS:
Quote:
 
Duct Tape: This stuff is kinda old and probably doesn't stick well, but it'll sure as hell patch up a hole in a tent.

Quote:
 
Rorty and Mick Lid©: You tripped over this in your drunken stupor out of the building. This isn't the rarest, but it defiantly is a find for Lid lovers. *catch the disease.©*
Jon Creaver (Lvl 3)
5/8/6/3/7/7/4
Ghoul, 16, 5'4", Hoodie usually covers most of his features
Creep, One-Hander (Righty), Small Frame
Weapon: The Red Herring (Phazer, Custom Red-White Paint)
Harpoon gun (Rusted)
Attire: Blue hoodie covering Teir 1: Desert Clothes
Rep: +50 BT

"It is a foolish soldier who sees things as he wants them to be. One day reality hits, and his illusions fail him, and he dies stupidly. What honor is there in that?"
-The Arbiter, Halo 3
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