Badlands: Phoenix Rising (POST-NUKE RP) IC

[Violante]

IC

(OOC & SIGN-UPS HERE)

"The Phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise." - Miguel de Cervantes

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AZ Badlands Map

It’s been 66 years since the demise of civilization, and all lays quiet and desolate in the Arizona Badlands, but mankind is far more stubborn. As silent as the as slumber of the scorching desert may seem, tensions are rising to a boiling point and can be heard like the rumbling of thunder from the belly of the dark inferno in Phoenix. Your mission is simple. Get into the dead city and claim the bounty of Phoenix. You may come from different paths, and have different reasons for your prize, but you all must work together in order to infiltrate Phoenix and rise it's treasures from the glowing ashes.

You are a nobody, an insignificant speck on the vast landscape of what was the state Arizona, you’re powerless, there are more creatures, gangs, and factions which could turn you into a bleeding shivering pulp than you can count, you don’t have many ties to the land and its inhabitants, nor do you know anyone who owes you “favors”. You are possibly one of the lowest common denominators of the wasteland. Your rise to glory will be a most difficult one, but you must rely on each other to reach Phoenix.

You'll be starting in Graham County.

First, some backstory to set the scene...

After the war, the CO2 released by combustion of the bombs and methane released from decay of dead organic matter (bodies, trees, etc), caused what is known as a "Nuclear Summer"; a deep corrosion of the inner-layers of atmosphere leading to particularly brutal UV-rays and infernal heat. Because of this, the majority of the Arizona Badlands is covered under a heavy shroud of searing fever, one of the many reasons why only the most foolish, or desperate scavengers come to pick at Arizona's relatively untouched caches of resources. It's a hellishly blaming 121 degrees, and the winds are starting to pick up light dust off the red-orange dunes of the surrounding Badlands desert. In this part of the Badlands the mid-day sun shines through the corroded ozone enough to blind, so remember to pack your shades, or goggles if you got 'em. A mask or a scarf of some sort might be a good idea as well, unless you prefer a mouth-full of dust.

For whatever reason you've decided for your character, you must reach Geronimo Trading Post near the upper-corner of the county. The Post will serve as a sort of meet-up spot for the group, and the location that your characters will hear word of the Treasure of Phoenix. We suggest reaching the Trading Post by at least your third post in order to make sure everyone makes it there pretty much at the same time.

You must start in Graham County, and have a reason to go Geronimo Trading Post. There you will find the other players and form your group. We recommend pacing your arrival at least three posts before you arrive in at the Trade Post.

Begin your Journey.

RP OPs and Creators are: Orvius and Violante

[Orvius]

Gabriel awoke.

Eyes sore, he opened them to catch what little glimpse of light was there. It was still dark, and he could feel the ice catching his breath as it escaped his pale lips. Indeed, the heavy felt blanket he was wrapped in was engulfed in a thin layer of white frost. Even his shabby untrimmed stubble was softly iced on the tips, causing the little blond hairs to glisten in the few beams of light that peered through the veil of his tent. Oh, how he wished he could stay huddled in the mass of cloth that he had been hidden under all night. As he pulled the cover over his head, feeling the cold night’s air lingering on his bare hands, he was entertaining the urges to blow the day off and sleep in. He knew, however that wasn’t an option, he had a lot to do today, and he had put forward much effort to convince himself that the shadow of futurity that his schedule cast would distract him from the matter at present. Reluctantly, Gabriel removed the blanket from himself and pushed it sluggishly to the side, shaking and shuddering the whole time, the unforgiving cold suffocating the heat his body was holding dearly on to as he exposed himself. Slowly, he rose, his aching bones fighting the still, bitter air. Sitting up on the pile of warm felt, he reached for the cargo pants he had stuffed into the corner of the tent, digging into the pockets for his wrist-watch. The dials on the watch marked five for the short and nearly nine for the long. “Already slept half an hour more than usual, time to get up.” he thought to himself as he chattered his teeth, and he watched the steam rise from his mouth in the bleak near-light of the dusk. His mouth was dry and his eyes were still heavy from the difficult night, but he shook himself and rubbed his eyes each time he felt himself start to succumb to the enticing concept of sleep. Leaning off the huddled blanket as to not touch the cold ground, Gabriel cautiously lifted the tarp and inspected the skies outside his tent. The sun was nearly raising over the mesa, it's harsh rays barely peeking over the hill. The night was over, as well as the freezing cold that came with it, but soon the day would begin, and the sun would become the new reigning oppressor of the elements. “Still alive.”, Gabriel thought to himself as he watched the sun creep over the rocks of the mesa, casting a faint orange outline over the earth and brush of the ridge.

He lurched slowly out of the tragically shabby canvas tarp he called a tent and was quick to lace his boots over his uncovered feet. He only had one lace on one of them, so he needed to make creative use of it, criss-crossing it through the loops to make sure that it would stay put.wandered over to the fading ashes of last night’s campfire. The cinders were still glowing, but any heat to fight off the chill in the air was long gone. A sigh rose from Gabriel as he abandoned his position crouched over the dead hearth, instead reaching for the small spade he had laid next to the fire. With shovel in hand, Gabriel sluggishly dug out the canned food he stashed just a few inches below the dirt, wiping sleep from his eyes. Critters and other things interested in a meal could easily steal his edibles during the night, he learned that the hard way quite a while ago.

The chicken from the can was repulsively cold. Although it was canned, it must have gone bad long ago as evident by the suspicious gelatin that seems to have congealed from what can only be assumed was the broth. Gabriel stared down at the ‘food’, eyeing it skeptically, though his mouth watered at the notion of the salted bird. He knew better, of course, than to just eat it. Though for as wise his mind perceived itself to be, the hunger that plagued his body cried out in animalistic revolt. Hunger ate at his guts like a worm, the pain evident on his face even as still he looked mistrustfully down at the fowl. The hunger bore mercilessly on his senses, gnawing in his gut and taunting his mind with the urge to eat, to devour the savory beast. At last, the battle was won, and his will was broken by the hunger, causing him to reluctantly reach into the can and pull a slice of the bird from the slime with a sound comparable to pulling your boot out of deep mud. Still Hesitatingly, he bit into it, the hardened gristle and slime crunching against his teeth. The taste was vile, like decay; shameless in it’s gruesome assault on his mouth. Spitting it out was just about the best thing he could do, though not by much. Disgruntled and foiled by the chicken, Gabriel threw can far off into the bushes, sticking his finger in his mouth to dig out the stringy rot that laid there, though that didn’t resolve the aftertaste.

He needed food. That much was certain. He inspected the other meal and came to the upsetting discovery that his final can had corroded, the last of the juices dripping out of the rusted tin hole and the tomatoes spoiled in the underground dirt. Must have happened a while ago, damn it all. He groaned and spat curses on the can. Obviously, he knew it was silly to curse an inanimate object, but his distress had made it justifiable. This can of rotten tomatoes was the last in his inventory, and all the plans he had for a safe meal were now changed drastically. Now, with the last of his food used up, he knew that his schedule had to be changed for today. He had to get to the Geronimo Trading Post and make his monthly delivery early. It was early in the month of November, and he had no salvage to offer. What would he do? Would he have to give up his tent and blanket? His pots and pans? He rubbed his forehead and eyes in exasperation, mumbling words like ‘moron’ and ‘idiot’ quietly. No matter how many times he went over it in his head, he had nothing to barter with that he didn’t need. Finally, after several moments of deep thought, he decided that he’d have to give up his necessities in order to survive; he needed to trek to the Trading Post by today.

After fetching the hidden pack from the nearby Desert Willow, he checked his equipment. Everything seemed to be in order, from his busted rifle to his binoculars and his shivs, everything was accounted for. But wait. Where is he? Gabriel became panicked. He quickly sprung up from the pack and frantically tossed the blanket to the side and overturned his tent. He was no where to be found. Where could he have gone? Gabriel was on the verge of tears, nearly choking on the anger and the panic that had overcome his mind. His only companion in this hell, vanished into thin air. Gabriel threw cookware, kicked and stomped the red earth and grasped at his crusted blond hair. He wanted to scream, but his throat was too cracked and dry. He crumbled to his knees in a defeated heap and using his powerful chapped hands crushed the reeds of dry grass that sparsely peppered the desert floor. His rage and his grief boiling into an uncontrollable anguish. His thoughts spiraling into a whirl of sinking hopelessness sprawled across the frigid soil.

Then... He saw him.

He was sitting quietly on a small rock. His toothy grin stretched across the bottom of his shining yellow-gray head, his dark deep eyes staring, unblinking. Gabriel gasped a deep breath of relief, remarking to himself how close he was to losing him again. He chuckled quiveringly and struck his forehead as he continued to breath sharp gulps of cold air. He wheezed and he choked as he stumbled to his feet, the dust kicked up from his panic was starting to settle. As he stood he told himself how stupid he was to have left him there, right within reach of the camp, and still nearly forgot where he was. Clumsy fool. Idiot. He walked slowly to him and sat down in front of him, his head hanged low. Hopefully he wasn't too angry with him.

"Sorry." Gabriel said quietly.

The skull laid there on the rock. Silent as you would expect a skull to be.

"Please don't say that. I would never have left you. You know that." Gabriel pleaded.

It still laid on the rock, it's deep judging eyes an unforgiving black void.

"I'll make it up to you. Please, you can trust me, Ethan. I won't leave you behind, you made me promise." He said at a near whisper.

The skull was again, silent.

"I'll be more careful, I promise. I promise."

Gingerly, Gabriel picked up Ethan, careful not to drop him, and secured him to his rucksack by a twine string, checking twice, then three times that it wouldn't fall off. As the sun began to rise over the hilltop and Gabriel had finished clearing the camp, he grabbed his goggles and put on his hooded cloak to spare him the sun's wrath. After consulting his map and discussing directions with Ethan, he shouldered the sling on his rifle, wrapped his mask, and briskly walked off towards the direction of the cracked asphalt highway. If he was going to make it to Geronimo Trading Post before noon, he'd have to move quickly.

[Violante]

"Ow, fuck! Damnit I'm getting sick of this stupid bullshit!"

The sun hasn't even been up for two hours, and my voice is already booming across the jungle of earth and sand, people like to collectively call the oven, although I've also heard the term Badlands from the local flavour. I swear, a day can't start without me finding a way to hurt myself, almost as though it's the wasteland trying to inflict some sort of stupid karma related vengeance on me... or maybe I'm just a fucking idiot, for deciding that an inoperable dirt bike would be a cool thing to scavenge from the crumbled remains of some long dead jackholes garage. In retrospect I probably should have left it there to rot, but of course I didn't leave it there, so now I'm stuck pushing this rusted monument to the rebellious spirit across what seems like the entire wasteland, it doesn't help that the back wheel thing... or whatever the thing is called that turns the wheel, I don't fucking know, is almost completely oxidised shut, so it won't turn anymore. combine that with the torrid sun baking the metal on this pile of garbage, so much that whenever my panted leg touches the side of it even for the slightest second, it's like I'm getting third degree burns. I probably haven't even made it a single klick from my previous campsite, what a fucking day this is turning out to be.

"Damnit." I growled through gritted teeth.

Taking yet another intermission, I couldn't help but glare at the motorbike, knowing full well that this scrapheap is doing nothing but weighing me down, forcing me to take a pause and try to regain some lost energy every few metres. Although the mere prospect of getting a motorised vehicle running gave me wet dreams, the sheer potential of having something to ride on, instead of using my sore and aching feet is too much to pass up on. And if this mechanical shit refuses to operate,I could always just try to sell it in its non functioning state, and make a hefty profit off of its scrap, then if I wanted I could just kill the person who I sell it to and get a the parts back to sell again, and still retain whatever I was selling it for, this venture is taking quite a bit of physical and mental exertion, though it would be pretty aweso--

"Mother fucker!" I practically screeched.

Without a single warning, the stupid goddamn bike burned me... again, and that would be the last time. Not wanting to accept this can of ass, I pushed the worthless thing on the ground. The frustration of how little progress I've actually made today combined with the unbearable heat, made for one pissed off me. My hands shook as I tried pulling my revolver out of its holster, having to try and fidget with the lanyard which kept it secured, after seconds of unnecessary wasted time trying to fight the damn cloth, I finally yanked my gun out, tearing the lanyard completely off; most of my revolver has various forms of miscellaneous cloth wrapped around it, protecting my calloused digits from being burned as well, with my cracked glare dilating on the motorised transportation from hatias, I aimed my handgun at the molten scrap sent from hell. My fingered appendages had a hard time taking form around the grip of the handgun, maybe from large amounts of sweat which glazed my hand, or possibly because I lacked the needed energy to keep a firm grip, losing most from pushing this abomination, either way my hand quivered in a form of rage.

"You think you can just, just sear me, you pile of fuckmeat! I'll end you!" Fuming like an industrial chimney, I was ready to end this mechanical beast's life... life.

As much as I really wanted to shoot this thing, I had to pause for a moment, my relatively short barrage of well thought out insults and threats were being directed to an inanimate object, even I had to take a step back and realise how incredibly ignorant I must appear, talking to a piece of metal... actually I probably looked fucking bonkers. With slight hesitation I holstered my gun, and wiped some residual grease off my hand, and onto my trousers, though the bike was wearing on my tolerance level, and probably my sanity, I couldn't deny its use out here, either as a vehicle for my personal use, or to be sold for monetary gain. Unleashing an exaggerated sigh, I went to pull it up from the spot where I was going to execute it, making sure that my legs are extended outward from the scorching metal. This is going to be a long walk.

[Beiarusia]

It was hot.

That was the first thought to cross Alice’s mind as she tossed and turned in her bed, twisting away from the glaring light that filtered in through the dusty air, wanting to sleep in for a bit longer. Not like she was in much of a hurry. A few more minutes or hours would be fine enough. A comforting thought as Alice slowly drifted back into the clutches of sleep. It wasn’t to last, however. Hunger was nagging at the edge of her being and the heat was gradually warming where she had chosen to sleep. Given enough time – a frighteningly short amount of time at that – her bed space would become an oven, a frightening thought for someone trying to give way to sweet oblivion. With a sigh she began the process of waking, stretching her stiff limbs and generally just lying where she was as her brain slowly came back to speed with reality.

Alice had spent the night inside an abandoned car she had happened across, the metal husk lying beside the cracked road. It was a welcomed change of pace compared to sleeping on the ground as was normally how she spent her nights, her small frame perfectly suited for the backseat – a small bonus concerning her size, in most cases being a sore topic.

The girl sat with her arms stretched out across the seat, her feet resting on the center dash as she relaxed for a few more minutes. She glanced over to the car’s only other occupant: the skeletal remains of some poor sap strapped in to the driver seat. She tapped the skull with her bare foot, knocking the head loose from corpse’s shoulder and down to its lap. She watched for a little while longer.

“Oops. Sorry about that, but no need to lose your head.” She chuckled at her own joke before stopping abruptly, sighing once more. “Time to get going I guess.”

Lacing her boots and grabbing her things, the thin girl stepped out once more into the bright sunlight of the day. Her widebrimmed hat was more than enough to block most of the harmful sun rays – as well as serving to contain her mess of hair – but the tinted goggles she had nicked a while back were helpful as well. Sniffing the dry air she looked out over the dead highway, offering only a passing glance to the nearby mile marker. Feeling another pang in her stomach she swung around her satchel and dug inside, sifting through the mess before finding the jerky she had. Alice wasn’t sure what kind of meat it was but it was palatable enough. Quickly devouring it, she took stock of her supplies, finding herself low on food and water. Not too much of a big deal. There was bound to be a town somewhere along this stretch of road if she was willing to walk long enough.

With a final wave to her deceased companion, Alice set off down the lonely road, scarf pulled up across her face and her hands clasped behind her head as she hummed quietly to herself.

[Dernland]

The dust storm began to pick up again, shrouding the distant hills from my sight. The sands stretched out before me, shimmering in the scorching heat. My legs scythed in a steady interval as I jogged along, heedless of the rising heat and dust. Each footfall kept me going down the ancient road, each step producing a plume of dust marking my path. I had kept this steady pace for many days now, stopping only to sleep and eat. A settlement about forty miles to the north was kind enough to let me sleep and to give me some food in exchange for a service. Many people in these parts took one look at me and marked me off as an easterner or a savage.

The dust picked up more and more, shrouding everything more than a few feet in any direction. The only audible sound above the roar of the wind was the pounding of my own feet on the sand. On the bright side, it was a bit cooler with this storm covering the sun. But with this shade came a new threat, the threat of ambush. I could reach the Geronimo post by nightfall at this rate, but the danger of bandits, animals, or unforeseen pitfalls could end my journey far sooner. I turned from the road and began searching through the dust for a rock outcropping that I could use for shade. After a short search I found a hollow that was sheltered from the biting sand. I drew out my spear, readying myself for any occupants.

To my great relief, the hollow was barren except for what seemed to be an old fire-pit. The pit was long out of use and even the charred wood was indiscernible from the sands surrounding it. I settled into the hollow, curling into a ball and waiting for the storm to pass.

[Orvius]

As Gabriel walked on the broken asphalt, oil and tar blistering beneath his tape-covered boots, he quietly grieved about the hateful nature of the sun. It was nearly high-noon now, and the sun had made it’s way into the center of the dead sky, it’s high throne in which it gazed ruthlessly down at it’s domain. His shoulders ached under the weight of his pack, and the blisters on his feet shrieked under each step on the scorched road as the sun’s heat made every sore throb that much more painful. ‘The sun is spiteful’, Gabriel thought to himself, not a cold seething spite but a sweltering red rage that incessantly beats down on everything in it’s sight. He hated it. He had been under the heel of it’s fury his entire life and not once did he ever grow to be sentimental to it’s warmth. The sweat beaded down his eyes and fogged his welding goggles, the hot and salty drops rolling off his painfully chapped lips. ‘Damn it’ He thought as the salt of his sweat stung his lips. His mind wailed in weary distress. The path ahead was very flat, and not one of the small dunes on the sides of the road proposed any shade from the noon sun. He was silently wishing, longing, that he might find refuge from this agonizing fever. His hood kept his flesh from burning, but he could still feel the sun radiating off the thick leather. His senses cried out in protest of the long dreadful walk, but he kept going. He wished for a place to rest, a tree to lay in the shade, to come upon anything that could relinquish this bitter misery. Tongue dried and coarse, he reached for his canteen and hastily opened it. Only a small sliver of water splashed into his arid mouth, and it was gone.

“Shit!” Gabriel exclaimed aloud, while inspecting the canteen for leaks.

Truly, fortune had abandoned him. No! He was convinced now, that fortune had not abandoned him, it was torturing him! These past three weeks had been nothing but bad luck. He rarely even supported the concept of luck, but at times like these he had no where else to look for explanation. Logic was hardly justifiable when it would seem that a jinx had been upon him as of late. He could barely find any scrap last month, no salvage to trade was to be found this week, his rifle had been broken, his food had gone bad, and now there was a hole in his canteen. He didn’t believe in curses, he was far too skeptical about things like that, but in that situation he swore and cursed the fates.

“To lament is a sign of weakness, you coward.” Ethan callously spat, his words shaking in Gabriel’s font lobe like the roll after a clap of thunder, boiling with ire and contempt. The skull’s words seeped into Gabriel’s head as he turned them over and over again, considering and analyzing the accusations for what felt like thousands of times.

“Sorry.” Gabriel ceded faintly.

“Do not apologize!… Poor little Gabriel, always the victim and a worm. You will never survive at this rate. If you are to do anything, then trust my word: you’ll be dead within a week. I am sure of it.” Ethan seethed, his words spoken as coldly as they were cutting.

“I know.” Gabriel muttered.

“...You may just live, Gabriel. As long as you do not happen to lose me again, clumsy oaf.” The skull breathed into Gabriel’s ear with the same scorning and sentimental tone as a vigilant mother would have for a child.

“I won’t. I swear.” Gabriel avowed.

Lingering on his companion's words, he stood up straight, puffed his chest with a deep breath, and continued his trek with a new trudging resolve. He must make it to the Trade Post, and he mustn't falter. Ethan was relying on him to pull through, and he couldn’t fail him again. This journey would usually take a day or two with the rest stops that he’d usually take, but he couldn’t afford to do that; he would have to press on all the way to Geronimo.

The monotonous march bore on, the unchanging scenery of the lifeless Badlands blurring together on his hike. But wait, something was different, he heard the faint sound voices up ahead. He looked up from his feet and saw a broken wreckage of a car on the side of the road about half a mile away, with silhouettes of men standing around it, their visage waving in the heat of the road.

“Hide, you fool.” Ethan hissed in Gabriel’s ear as he hurriedly dashed into cover in the dune overlooking the road. Gabriel’s breath was heavy as he settled the top of the dune, overlooking the scene. Wiping the crusted dirt off the lenses of his binoculars he watched the crowd on the road. The three men were very intimidating, wearing the fragments of metal and cloth and bone, car seat belts and buckles wrapped around their legs, skin pierced with nails and holding blades and clubs of twisted ragged metal and pipe, and chains of bullets and random trinkets hanging off their bare chests. Their skin was hard and rocky, thick with tumors and callouses, bearing nonsensical symbols carved deep into their flesh. They were menacingly towering above another man, cowering and begging in a terrified heap against the car. It was obvious what they were doing, taking turns beating and kicking the man. Surely, these beastly men were going to kill him, and probably worse. Through the binoculars Gabriel could see the sickening satisfaction the fiends had on their faces as they tore at his teeth and crushed his fingers, there was pain of their own as well as they winched and clutched their sores and burns, but mostly the enjoyment at his agony was the most present emotion.

“Burned-Men…” Gabriel muttered under his breath. That’s what the locals called them, anyway, on account of their pale-yellow and black scalding bumps all over their skin. Always shirtless, it seemed. For what reason would they decide to subject themselves to the sun’s burning rays he did not know. Perhaps their brains had been fried by the heat, or maybe it was some sort of cult ritual. Although he was curious to a degree, he didn’t care enough to investigate. All he knew about them was that they are a substantial problem in this side of the Badlands, known for skinning and torturing victims in numerous accounts. ‘Poor bastard’ Gabriel thought as he watched the Burned-Men twist and shatter his bones. ‘They definitely have a strange fascination with skin’ he mused as his stomach churned at the spectacle of them pressing the man’s face against the burning metal of the car and cutting at his skin. All the while, the man was crying out for mercy, begging someone to help.

“Do not even think about helping him.” Ethan said dispassionately, in an almost sarcastic tone.

“I’m not.” Gabriel whispered in an agitated low grumble.

“Good. Let them be then, and they will be gone shortly.”

After what Gabriel guessed to be about eight minutes, the largest of them turned to the others and shouted “Strip the spine!”, in which the others started in a chant. ‘Strip the spine!’ they cried in choir as they dragged the broken man by his legs from beside the car. His objection against the Burned-Men was quietly fading to unintelligible mumbling as he became unconscious. Subsequently, the disturbed marauders walked off the road with the man dragging behind, caring not for the rocks and gravel that they were dragging the back of his head against. Gabriel waited for a few more minutes after they left his line of sight. All was quiet, and the Burned-Men were gone, their morbid chant no longer filling the dry air. He felt a great deal of pity for the man.

“Pity is also weakness.”

The car was empty. Gabriel expected that much, but it was clear to him that there was some recent rummaging that had gone on in the inside. The car-seats had long-since removed, as well as the carpet, the dials, the steering wheel, the wipers, spark plugs, belts, wheels, and the glove box was empty. ‘Typical’ Gabriel thought to himself. He’d be very surprised if he actually came across a car that wasn’t stripped down to the rusted steel frame. As he popped the hood he sighed an expectant ‘Yep.’ as the engine and all it’s components were completely gone from the ancient mid-sized sedan. ‘He had to be here for something.’ Gabriel pondered as he inspected the dust wiped off from the poor man that was dragged off. There were minute disturbances in the rust and the grime of the car that persuaded Gabriel that the man had been poking around in the car longer than a quick look that would have deterred an average scrapper, he must have been hiding or storing something. While inspecting a line of wiped gunk that lined the dashboard, he noticed a ragged cut in the leather surface. It was new, he was sure, as it hadn’t had sediment settle in it. Wrapping his hand in his cloak as to not burn himself, he carefully pulled the cut open to reveal a hidden flap that reached down into the dashboard. He peered inside and to his jovial surprise he saw a small red gasoline canister. Finally! Some good luck! With this gas he had something to pay for his next month’s food supply! His face was beaming as he pulled the rusted can out of the car and inspected it. Overcome with joy, he quickly twisted the cap off to look, surely all that drivel about curses was just his desperation, because he was his break. As he twisted the cap off, he took a short whiff of the fuel. His cheerful grin quickly fell as he smelt the gasoline; it was sour. He whined and stared down the hole at the gas, hoping beyond hope that it was still good. The gasoline was dark in color, and there was no denying it now. It had been oxidized quite some time ago, and it was useless now. Gabriel pressed his head against his palms and mourned over the loss of his potential prospect. It truly looked hopeless now, as he had nothing to offer the trader, and this gas was his only hope.

“We can still sell it.” Ethan advised.

Gabriel scoffed and mumbled, “They’ll know it’s no good. What’s the point?”

“Coward!” Ethan shouted in Gabriel’s head, the sound painful as it drowned out all other ambience, “Those morons at the post will not know if we don’t give it away. Sell it as if it was fresh, fool those dimwitted backwater dealers. Even you could do that.”

Gabriel sighed a heavy breath, “I guess so. It’s the only chance we got, but I don’t think it’s going to work.”

Ethan growled his voice trembling in Gabriel’s mind “That gutless talk is part of what got him killed.”

That remark was especially painful, it made his chest heavy and constrained, as if it was strangling his heart. He begrudgingly agreed and stood up from his slump. The post was not far from here, just ten minutes or so, and he’ll spot it on the horizon. Not far to walk now, but he dismay at the implications of meeting his destination. He would not beg, but he did not having anything to offer either. In both positions, he would be disgraced and needy, a situation that he loathed.

[Violante]

I collapsed onto my knees, and with yet another overemphasised and quite frankly, loud exhale, I felt a sense of reassurance, after a tormenting amount of hours, I finally reached the outer premises of the shithole known as Geronimo. Satan's spawn, as I grew to know it as, rested on its rusted and poorly aged kickstand, it's a miracle that I'm even able to pull the damn thing down in the first place, due to the amount of rust covering the screw which held it in place for so long, let alone it supporting the weight of the bike. With the death march behind me now, I shakily got back up to my feet, a would be short journey made ridiculously long and agonising burnt a metric fuck-ton worth of energy, not eating anything on the trip over to this bumfuck oasis in the desert seemed to only make things worse, not to mention my irritating desire to light up a cancer stick, Though to my defence, having a limited amount of rations really causes the mind to subconsciously preserve stock, even if I was nothing but skin and bones. Although what the hell does it matter now, right? I'm sure one of the asshats can get my new bike up and running, then I can ride off down some desolate asphalt or something like that.

"Time to start living the easy life." I said with a preemptive grunt as I pulled up the kickstand as much as physically possible, and started pushing it towards the entrance.

Sometime during my arduous journey, the back wheel ceased turning at all now, which has made my little escapade through the raider and burnt-men infested badlands that much more unbearable. Finally pulling my tuberculosis on wheels to the makeshift front gate of this crapshoot settlement, I stood, out of breath, and shaking from energy loss. The only thing in front of me is an open entrance, and an asshole brandishing some firearm. Motionless, I stared at the wouldbe guard, waiting for him to give me some stupid command, or even a 'howdy', or 'welcome'. However no, he only gazed down at me. Do I have to do everything around here? For Christ's sake.

"Well? I'm waiting." After standing around with still no response, I'm beginning to become very annoyed. "You gonna let me in, or not? I don't have all day to stare at your balding head." I always detested anyone who works as security, they often seem to have some sort of superiority complex, what jackboots.

[Orvius]

WELCOME TO GERONIMO TRADING POST

The post is a well-guarded central hub for nearly all trade in Graham County Badlands. It boasts 8 different merchants, several armed guards, and "Red Sun's Taphouse", the only saloon within 50 miles of any direction in this side of the Badlands. The Post is famous in Graham County, as there are many traveling traders that come from all over to advertise their wares to anyone within ear-shot of the courtyard. Then again, it being the only trade post in the whole county might have something to do with that. What little is known about Geronimo Trading Post's history is reliant entirely on observation. The place seems to be built out of what remained of a sort of gas-station built near a train station that was abandoned long before the Blast. The buildings include a gas-station, a restaurant, a repair garage, and a two rail-cars. All of which have been converted into storefronts, except the far right rail-car that has been turned into Red Sun's Taphouse.

[OOC NOTE: The OPs will write for the NPCs, if you wish to engage in conversation with an NPC, then type [NPC] at the end of your post. The first NPC will be the gate-guard.]

[Orvius]

"Well? I'm waiting." After standing around with still no response, I'm beginning to become very annoyed. "You gonna let me in, or not? I don't have all day to stare at your balding head." I always detested anyone who works as security, they often seem to have some sort of superiority complex, what jackboots.

NPC

GERONIMO GATE GUARD CAPTAIN

The man before Corvus is massive and daunting, looking about 6’ 6’’ and built like a brick-house. He holds an air of unwelcoming suspicion in the way he looks down his nose at Corvus, distrustfully scanning her as he rises from his torn lawn chair perch in the shade of the perimeter wall. Not to mention he smells like stale skunk beer, even from the thirty foot distance. The three other guards naturally followed his lead and did their best to form an intimidating straight line with their rifles exposed in front, almost as though they had been rehearsing. The Guard Captain's longcoat kicked up the red dust that seemed to be covering the bottom of his clothes on the way over to his position in front of the crew.

“I wouldn’t come here looking for trouble, girly. This here is Geronimo Trade Post, and we don’t take kindly to raiders, psychos, or punks. So if you’re any of those, you can kindly piss off.” the guard snarled as he racked the slide on his poorly maltreated shotgun held in place with tape and soldered iron, the end of the barrel nearly shredded to bits from countless careless blasts. “Unless you’d like to volunteer to be target practice for me and the boys. We haven’t had some random Badlands asshole stir up trouble for more than a week. Poor ol’ Myra ‘ere ain’t had the taste of blood for quite some time.” He motioned with much menace as possible at his misshapen scattergun.

A lanky young rat-faced guard burst out in hurrah, “Yeah! You tell him, Big Bert!”. He wasn’t holding the half-a-hunting-rifle he had quite correctly, having the base of it against his collarbone, the stock inexplicably sawn-off, and the safety switched on. Couldn’t be more than 15 years old.

“Cut that shit, Murphy.” Big Bert barked with strict command, the juvenile guard disheartened and raising his firearm in obedience. With the kid in order, the guard captain “Big Bert” turned his attention back to Corvus. “Now… You got two choices, Miss. You can come in, nice and quiet like, and buy some shit from our friendly Geronimo merchants,” he gestured a low swooping arm toward the gate doors in mock welcome, “...or we can blow you into so many bits my boys here will be tired of lookin’ for ya.” his words rolling off his painfully cracked lips like a dog’s growl, “Understood?”.

[Beiarusia]

The heat was near unbearable, beating down on anything unfortunate enough to have been caught beneath the sun’s scorching, unforgiving rays, baking the earth and man alike with little regard to either. Alice pushed on despite the feeling of hyperthermia that threatened to overwhelm her, trekking along the desolate stretch of highway with shambling steps, cursing the sun as it hung high in the sky above her, mocking and uncaring. Travel in the daylight hours was by no means an easy feat, and though one would be inclined to move during the much cooler night there was little guarantee to one’s safety. A choice had to be made and Alice had opted for the difficult albeit safer of the two options. A decision that she now found herself regretting.

In all actuality Alice would regret either decision but chose to complain nonetheless.

Of her two water bottles – cheap plastic that still maintained a decent seal – one was completely dry and the other dangerously near so. Alice had overestimated exactly how much water had been on her person and, having already downed a good portion that morning without realizing her plight, was starting to grow perhaps a bit worried. Dehydration was a real risk in the wasteland – Badlands to those who preferred otherwise – and a day without water could well prove fatal. With little choice the teenager wandered on, hoping that her assumption of a town being nearby was indeed correct. Death was not something that she wished to experience.

“Fuck my life,” Alice said to no one, her eyes glued to the faded white lines of the highway. In a feeble attempt to distract her mind from such things as potentially dying as a shriveled husk in the ditch she took to counting the lines she passed, reaching as high as 283 before losing count and starting anew. She barely broke one hundred before giving up her little game, choosing to scan the surroundings that she had blissfully ignored for the past few hours.

There was a sign not too far from where she stood. At some point in the past it had been a highway marker but had since been repainted to serve as a landmark to point travelers in the right direction: Geronimo Trading Post. Alice could barely believe her luck, a new sense of excitement filling her being. Downing the last bit of her water she followed where the sign pointed, moving quickly with her newfound strength.

It was a mistake. The trading post had been much further than anticipated and Alice, having quickly failed to maintain her unrealistic pace, was close to blacking out, something she was certain she would never wake from. Unable to go much further she was about to call it quits and accept that she had fucked up somewhere along the line when she saw the small settlement far off in the distance, a speck of blackness against the blinding glare of the sandy wastes. Determination was all that fueled her now, stumbling forward with little purpose other than to reach the settlement. Hopping between one settlement to another had proven relatively successful in the past and though she was much closer to death this time round she felt that things would go relatively smoothly like they’ve always done. A bit of naivety that had yet to fail her.

Alice was outside Geronimo now, approaching the gate with little left to go on. A woman was standing up ahead, a motorcycle standing precariously near her. Several men were speaking with her, armed and most likely guards meant to keep the peace. Or they were raiders and Alice was about to step into something she’d much rather avoid but, honestly, she didn’t even care at this point. Shambling a final few steps her strength gave way and she fell to the dirt, laying still for a long moment before shifting her weight so that she was at least comfortable. “I’m just gonna rest here for a moment,” she said more to herself than to anyone who may be listening, and true to her word she made no effort to pick herself from the ground.

[SaintB]

Fucking burned men! Fucking moron! Dane was the fucking moron, the other guy was just fucking dead. If he was right then his travelling companion would be getting his spine removed about now unless the burned men had decided to break all his bones first but with any luck the guy would be unconcious by the time they got around to the final mutilation. Dane couldn't even remember the man's name and that made him feel like a shitty human being for a while but this was Arizona and that was just the way of things; you meet a stranger, spend a few days with them, and then they get dragged away by sunburned freakazoids that commit unspeakable atrocities on their hopefully unconcious body - Welcome to the AZ.

As he made his way along I-70 toward the Geronimo trading post his mind wandered back to the deal that they had made, and how they had met... DAMNIT what was his name?

A couple days ago...

"God man. If I don't eat something soon I'll end up like that vulture." he mumbled too himself as he leaned against an adobe wall to attempt and get every last inch of shade that it could offer and stared at the dried corpse of a bird.

At least he thought he had mumbled it but apparantly he had said it louder than he knew. From across the dusty 'street' a man shouted at him, "I got something you can put in your belly pretty boy!" he made a gesture toward his groin.

"You can't afford me!" Dane shouted back at him, it was a stereotypical reply from someone in his line of work but this guy wasn't worth being creative for and besides it was too hot and Dane was too hungry.

"I was just offering a warm meal..." he mocked Dane with the accompanyment of laughter from his cronies.

"It looks too me like those two are already willing to suck you off so you don't need me anyway!" he shot back.

One of the two men with him seemed to resent the allegation that he was a cocksucker and reached for a wicked looking bowie knife but a the sound of a throat clearing interupted them. From around the corner came the town's marshall with a sawed off shotgun that he didn't quite level at anyone but brandished openly, "You gentlemen having an issue?"

"Yeah we are..." the knife guy said, "This fagboy over here is trying to convince us to pay him for sex!"

Dane nearly rolled his eyes but then it dawned on him, this town didn't like prostitution and lewd behavior (during the day) and they usually just locked minor crooks up for a night before running them out the next day... being locked up meant shelter at least, and dependent on how the Marshall's wife felt there might be a meal and some water too. A virtual garauntee of that actually by his estimation after the Saturday morning he had given her a few days ago, "The real issue is that they think I give group discounts, and for the way they smell I'm actually charging extra."

A shouting match started with the three men who probably were butt buddies by the way they got so offended by the idea they were keeping each other warm at night. Long story short the encounter ended with Dane predictably locked up in the building that served as a jail in these parts and that's where he met the man he had been travelling the last couple of days with. Jesus Christ what the hell was his name? It was hot enough to cook meat in the jail building but at least it was out of the sun and Dane ended up striking a coversation with the man in the cage next to his own.

The guy had come upon some gasoline and stopped in to trade a can of it for some food and ammunition but when the storekeeper found out it was spoiled he called the marshall and said that he was trying to con him; so into the lockup he went. Dane told the man he had been locked up for sleeping with the marshall's wife (paid work) and his daughter (that was for free) but it wasn't entirely true since the marshall didn't even know about that yet and Dane would proably be ran out of town before anyone found out about it anyway. He decided not to tell him about the real reason he got locked up because Dane had learned long ago that some people don't take kindly to men who will sleep with other men. After a pointless conversation Dane asked the man about his stash of spoiled petrol and convinced him that he could probably sell it at Geronimo Trading Post and their partnership was born.

Back to the Present

He was wise enough not to trust Dane with the location of where it was hidden but unfortunatly not savvy enough to avoid the burned men who waylayed them. Dane took off running but the other guy got caught and the sound of the mutants torturing him followed Dane for almost half a mile... poor bastard. What was his name?

[Violante]

“I wouldn’t come here looking for trouble, girly. This here is Geronimo Trade Post, and we don’t take kindly to raiders, psychos, or punks. So if you’re any of those, you can kindly piss off.” the guard snarled as he racked the slide on his poorly maltreated shotgun held in place with tape and soldered iron, the end of the barrel nearly shredded to bits from countless careless blasts. “Unless you’d like to volunteer to be target practice for me and the boys. We haven’t had some random Badlands asshole stir up trouble for more than a week. Poor ol’ Myra ‘ere ain’t had the taste of blood for quite some time.” He motioned with much menace as possible at his misshapen scattergun.

A lanky young rat-faced guard burst out in hurrah, “Yeah! You tell him, Big Bert!”. He wasn’t holding the half-a-hunting-rifle he had quite correctly, having the base of it against his collarbone, the stock inexplicably sawn-off, and the safety switched on. Couldn’t be more than 15 years old.

“Cut that shit, Murphy.” Big Bert barked with strict command, the juvenile guard disheartened and raising his firearm in obedience. With the kid in order, the guard captain “Big Bert” turned his attention back to Corvus. “Now… You got two choices, Miss. You can come in, nice and quiet like, and buy some shit from our friendly Geronimo merchants,” he gestured a low swooping arm toward the gate doors in mock welcome, “...or we can blow you into so many bits my boys here will be tired of lookin’ for ya.” his words rolling off his painfully cracked lips like a dog’s growl, “Understood?”.

Shambling a final few steps her strength gave way and she fell to the dirt, laying still for a long moment before shifting her weight so that she was at least comfortable. “I’m just gonna rest here for a moment,” she said more to herself than to anyone who may be listening, and true to her word she made no effort to pick herself from the ground.

The only resource I currently have at my disposal is a narrow glare, strong enough to melt steel beams. Taking threats even if idle was never my strong suit. Though I knew better from past experiences, there isn't a single opportunity open for me to win in a potential battle, even with the noticeable poor treatment of most of their weapons, they outnumber me easily, as well as held a form of high ground. Directing my attention away from the rather tall and large asshole, I gave a glance over to his goons, my face still contorted into a scowl. In my current position, I have no chance at winning this pissing match. So It's either I take a punch to my rather coarse ego, or open fire, and the latter won't end well. Working up a quick response to the sentry became temporarily postponed as a dull thud slightly echoed somewhere behind me, swivelling my head around I glanced the surroundings, before my eyesight spotted a figure crumpled up on the barren ground. No doubt someone looking for handouts. My thought process broke, as I turned back to the guards, whatever sugarcoated complements I previously conjured up in my head immediately vanished once my attention focused on the person laying on the ground.

With a sigh, and a roll of my eyes I gave this gun toting fuck-nugget the much more watered down answer he wanted. "...Fine, yes, whatever. I just want to get my dirt bike repaired. That's it, I won't cause a problem, comprende?"

This is possibly one of the worst days I've had in recent memory, I had to do back breaking labour just pushing the cycle from Haiti here, and now I'm in a position where I can't shoot this grumpy anus. Hopefully my eloquent response is enough to appease this piss ant, at the very least just enough to let me through, getting my motor bike operational should take precedence at the moment, not getting in a fight.

[Orvius]

With a sigh, and a roll of my eyes I gave this gun toting fuck-nugget the much more watered down answer he wanted. "...Fine, yes, whatever. I just want to get my dirt bike repaired. That's it, I won't cause a problem, comprende?"

NPC

GERONIMO GATE GUARD CAPTAIN, A.K.A. "BIG BERT"

"Good to hear it." Bert quietly muttered as he lowered his shotgun from it's hip-firing position. "Alright, boys. You know the drill. Check her!" He exclaimed as he motioned them to search Corvus for weapons, much to her dismay and anger. The other guard’s lack of participation as they returned to their posts singled out the kid, "Murphy", as the one to check Corvus. He was clearly nervous and maybe even embarrassed at the thought of frisking the clearly enraged young woman, evident by his blush and clamor.

Murphy turns to his comrades in flustered dismay "Yo-... You want me to check her? L-Like?", Bert just nodded in reply. His fellow guardsmen started to chuckle at the spectacle of the young kid's distress at the thought; no doubt this is a joke that they have pulled more than once. His face turned beet-red as he walked over to pat her down for weapons, hesitantly padding down the showlingly violent-tempered lady. He prodded, and he unintentionally groped as he quickly searched for weapons from the ticking time-bomb that was Corvus.

“Sorry.” Murphy said sheepishly.

Big Bert let out a weary sigh, “Don’t apologize, god damn it...” He said as he shook his head from the lawn chair perch, a slight smirk evident on his face. This awkward scene carried on for about a minute before one of the guards called out from his post exasperatedly “Fucking hell, Murphy! The holster! Check the damn holster!”. Murphy looked down to see her shining revolver hanging in her not-so-hidden holster. The dumb-founded lad looked up at her and locked eyes with the furious scowl that Corvus wore deep on her face.

“Sorry.” Murphy said sheepishly, once again.

Big Bert and his cronies were giggling and guffawing madly to themselves now, “Hehehehaha! Holy Shit! Just let her through, Murphy, ya dumb fuck!” He and the other guards cackled as the poor boy cautiously backed away from the enraged Corvus in shame and fear. It was now apparent that the check for weapons was more of a cruel gag on the kid rather than an actual safety precaution.

“You may pass…” Murphy mumbled timidly.

[Dernland]

I awoke drowsily, squinting through the holes in my helmet at the relatively clear sky overhead. I silently cursed my luck, as I had avoided the dangers of the storm only to be betrayed by the sun. The unimpeded sunlight would scorch the ground and anything on it, including myself. I stood and brushed the dust and sand off of myself. There was an awful lot of sand, the hollow must not have protected me as much as I had wished. A scrambling on the rocks nearby drew my attention. It was a coyote, small, but definitely not young. It had a slight limp in it's stride, and a nasty white scar ran the length of one fore-leg. It's fur was mangy and full of sand. The poor animal would not last more than a few more hours in this heat. I fished my spear out of the sand at my feet and approached the coyote. It shied away from me, whimpering at some old wound. I held pity in my heart for this creature, and I did what I had to.

The trading post was in sight now. The sun was just cresting the top of the sky. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I had not eaten since before the sun had risen. My steady jog had sped me on my way, making up for lost time, although it did not help my appetite. The walls of the post drew closer and larger as I approached. As to avoid any misunderstandings, I slowed my gait to a walk. I approached the gate, wary of the many eyes watching me, marking me for an enemy. I approached the guard and removed my helmet, probably a bad idea, but respect and custom demanded that I show my face. "You are the guard of the gate? What must I do to gain entry here?"

[NPC]

[Violante]

"Good to hear it." Bert quietly muttered as he lowered his shotgun from it's hip-firing position. "Alright, boys. You know the drill. Check her!" He exclaimed as he motioned them to search Corvus for weapons, much to her dismay and anger. The other guard’s lack of participation as they returned to their posts singled out the kid, "Murphy", as the one to check Corvus. He was clearly nervous and maybe even embarrassed at the thought of frisking the clearly enraged young woman, evident by his blush and clamor.

Murphy turns to his comrades in flustered dismay "Yo-... You want me to check her? L-Like?", Bert just nodded in reply. His fellow guardsmen started to chuckle at the spectacle of the young kid's distress at the thought; no doubt this is a joke that they have pulled more than once. His face turned beet-red as he walked over to pat her down for weapons, hesitantly padding down the showlingly violent-tempered lady. He prodded, and he unintentionally groped as he quickly searched for weapons from the ticking time-bomb that was Corvus.

“Sorry.” Murphy said sheepishly.

Big Bert let out a weary sigh, “Don’t apologize, god damn it...” He said as he shook his head from the lawn chair perch, a slight smirk evident on his face. This awkward scene carried on for about a minute before one of the guards called out from his post exasperatedly “Fucking hell, Murphy! The holster! Check the damn holster!”. Murphy looked down to see her shining revolver hanging in her not-so-hidden holster. The dumb-founded lad looked up at her and locked eyes with the furious scowl that Corvus wore deep on her face.

“Sorry.” Murphy said sheepishly, once again.

Big Bert and his cronies were giggling and guffawing madly to themselves now, “Hehehehaha! Holy Shit! Just let her through, Murphy, ya dumb fuck!” He and the other guards cackled as the poor boy cautiously backed away from the enraged Corvus in shame and fear. It was now apparent that the check for weapons was more of a cruel gag on the kid rather than an actual safety precaution.

“You may pass…” Murphy mumbled timidly.

After that unpleasant experience, I made damn sure to start snorting and collect as much mucus in the back of my throat to prepare a loogie, it only took a few seconds before I felt the slimy and somewhat adherent material build up, causing me to pause. Looking back at the prepubescent delinquent, I took a large inhale, allowing the blistering air to fill my lungs, before taking aim and discharging a thick clump of snot onto his tattered footwear. The taste was vile, though I made sure to spit again, to try and wash out the taste of my nostril sludge. With that complete, I craned my head back up to him, With my pseudo-revenge complete, I could now only flash my canines, like I was some rabid dog looking to be put down. I hope I made my point clear, hell at this stage I'll just draw and try to take out as many bastards as possible. I don't need some frisky teenage shit-bucket touching me, and I think I made that evident enough. Believing to be done, I turned back and continued pushing my bike into the settlement. One remaining thought of the person behind me dematerialise from my conscience.

Past the entrance and the wannabe protection of this place, I fully grasped what a shit-fest Geronimo really is. Merchants are all around, trying to haggle with customers, or just trying to scam those of ignorance, plenty of nobodies walking around, either doing business, or just going about their day. Signs and buildings littered my vision, even to the ends of my peripheral, It isn't exactly tough to figure out what place would be the best hope to get my cycle fixed up, an old mechanic's garage combo petrol station is situated near the back of the perimeter far scrap wall. Not wanting to stay, and somehow get swindled or pickpocketed, I began for the decrepit building, losing no haste.

"Let's get you fixed up old girl." I mumbled to my motorcycle, feeling my journey is almost complete.

[Beiarusia]

>SNIP<

Alice wasn’t sure how much time had passed since her collapse. She still lay where she fell, nothing seeming to be missing despite her close proximity to what was supposedly a major trading post in the area. Unless it wasn’t, not that Alice exactly knew. Her body ached and dehydration had long since sunk its claws into her, though the unscheduled rest had given her a small store of energy, perhaps enough so to make it to the trading post before her body gave way once more. Still, despite her newfound consciousness Alice chose to instead lay in the sand a moment longer, delaying the inevitable struggle for as long as humanly possible. Maybe a minute or two had passed before Alice bit the bullet and made for her feet, pushing herself up with a groan as every fibre of her being protested. A debate raged on inside her head as to whether or not this was really worth it but seeing as how far she’d already come Alice felt that, at the very least, she should try and attempt to stave off her demise no matter how unpleasant she currently felt.

Standing, the girl was a little annoyed at just how close she was to the trading post. It was unlikely that no one had saw her but, as it stood, she had been left to rot. Unable to spare the strength to curse her luck she merely stumbled closer towards the main gate, finding that the woman she had caught sight of earlier was gone. The men still remained and there was a new figure as well. Feeling faint, Alice decided that it would be best to collapse well within sight of the others, knowing that the likelihood of her recovering for a second time was slim to none. If others came across her then she would either be saved or killed horribly, though the slim chance of salvation was better than no chance whatsoever.

The man was speaking to the guards, his helmet removed and held in his hands. He dwarfed Alice should they stand beside one another and his disheveled hair made the teen girl feel more comfortable about the appearance of her own unkempt locks. Somehow she managed to reach where he stood, standing maybe ten or so feet off to his side, the short jaunt being enough to leave her breathing heavily.

“Is this the line to get in?” she asked the tall man, pulling down the scarf which covered her face in order to speak.

[Orvius]

NPC

GERONIMO GATE GUARD CAPTAIN, A.K.A. "BIG BERT"

"You are the guard of the gate? What must I do to gain entry here?"

[NPC]

“Ugh, another one?” Big Bert groaned as he looked up from the lawn-chair he was just getting comfortable in again. Rising up from his perch, he put back on his threatening act towards Aaron, though with noticeably less flair than before. The other guards didn’t even move from their posts, most just fixed their rifles’ sights upon the newcomer and others didn’t even care to. Swinging the large scattergun upon his shoulder, Big Bert looked down at Aaron with disgruntled irritation, taking another swig from the dust-crusted bottle he brought over from his chair before addressing him. After wiping the small droplets of the drink clinging to his beard on the neck of his coat, he grumbled “Okay, let’s get off on the right foot ‘ere. Don’t cause any guff like that last one, and we’ll have no reason to add you to the collection.” he said motioning to a line of four bodies hanging on the side of the outpost wall with the barrel of his shotgun, secured to the stakes of the barrier with rope and wire, hand-made signs around their necks reading “Raidur Scum”. Letting the precautionary threat of that imagery sink in for a moment, he continues “The rules ‘ere at the Trade Post are simple: don’t steal shit, don’t shoot shit, don’t cause no ruckus, and no spittin’ on the merchants... Oh! And no handouts! You buy somethin’ or ya don’t. Don’t waste our time by bumming around.”

Taking another drink from his warm beverage before finishing his speech, he turns to point out the guards at the two small sniper posts, one seems to be made from a bus turned long-wise and held up against the barrier wall and the other a sort of sheet-metal shack resting on top one of the buildings of the post, a rope ladder the only apparent way up. “If you think of stealing anything, the boys up there-” the guard atop the bus-tower waves to the pointing guard Captain, brandishing his Browning X-Bolt rifle with pride, sporting some sort of makeshift scope made out of half a pair of binoculars and other asymmetrical components, “-will put two .308s into the back of your skull before you even try to hop the wall.” Big Bert says with the same energy and emphasis someone showing you around their house and pointing out decorations would have. He turns back to Aaron to finish with, “Basically, don’t be a dumbass. Those bullets are real expensive, and we’d hate to waste ‘em.”

“Is this the line to get in?” she asked the tall man, pulling down the scarf which covered her face in order to speak.

Furrowing his brow, no doubt irritated about having his display interrupted, acknowledges Alice “Christ alive, ‘ya people keep popping outta nowhere…” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes and trying to think how to quickly recap the grand show he just put on for Aaron a moment ago. He looks down at Alice and points with his bottle in hand. “Okay! Welcome to Geronimo, don’t steal, don’t shoot, don’t spit, don’t cause a ruckus and… uh…” Big Bert lightly presses the bottle against his forehead as he struggles to remember that last thing he always forgets, “Oh yeah!” he exclaims as the clarity shows tellingly on his face, “No begging. Buy something, damn it. We’ll shoot ‘ya dead if you try any funny business, comprende?” Big Bert was feeling rather proud of himself at that moment for overcoming that kind of pressure, though he’s sure that the young teen might have missed a few rules at the pace he was spouting them out.

Forgetting that he was still there for a moment, he swings back around to face Aaron. “You understand the rules? There ain’t no gate-toll, but we expect you to buy somethin’ even if it is just a drink from the Taphouse.” The Captain crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow, “We good?”

[Cenning]

Zachariah;

He woke late, when the shadows cast by the sun were growing shorter and shorter, and the asphalt of Route 70 was burning hot enough for the air above it to seemingly dance and shimmer in the heat.
He woke, and stretched, and got up, and crawled out of his shelter for the night; the underside of a weathered crack in the road that was just about big enough for a 5’11 middle-aged man to squeeze under and escape the worst of the Badlands sun. Flinching as his hands and feet touched the surface of the road, he hesitantly pushed himself up by his hands and, pulling his hat out from his bag and using it to shield his eyes from the sun, looked around.

“Looks like you made it through the night,” he muttered. Craning his stiff neck upwards slightly to see the position of the sun, he amended that: “And most of the morning, too.” His backpack, too large to wedge in the gap where he’d slept out the night, lay face-down in the road. Apparently no-one had been here, or at least whoever had realised he had nothing valuable to take. There were a few pre-war artefacts in there, but they were likely junk then, and though together they might fetch a good meal or a bed for the night in Arizona, junk now too. Too risky to carry anything or be anyone worth anything here. After all, that’d attract attention, and most likely end in him lying... well, on the side of the road, except this time not exactly sleeping. He wasn’t here for that kind of death.

Having paused for a second, he now picked up the backpack and swung it over his back. Now he visibly winced as the two metal poles that kept it together touched his skin where the holes in his shirt were, transferring the heat of the Badlands sun from millions of miles away, through the hole where an ozone layer had once been, through to the small of his back. He steadied himself, and took the first few hesitant steps forward, cursing himself for not realising that the backpack would burn him like this: “But this isn’t New Mexico, is it? This isn’t anywhere where there’s enough shelter to keep the sun off your pack, is it? And, instead, this is Zachariah Aubin, talking to himself as he stumbles down Route 70. An outsider. Yes, that much is obvious. An outsider who has come west in search of... what? For starters, in search of a decent night’s rest. That’d be good.”

He was growing to know the road, through the worn-out soles of his feet. He amused himself by pulling an unlabelled tin out of his pack and trying to work out what was inside, and felt genuinely crushed by the discovery that it was pineapple chunks and not, as he had guessed, baked beans. He ate the pineapple with his hands as he walked. He felt guilty at the idea of urinating on a public road- “A couple of canteens of water for this whole desert and I’ve drunk more than my body needs already?”- and so went over a hill to do so. On his way back, he looked around. Still no signs of human life, but there was the wreck of a car somewhere ahead, hazy and distant but there, and so he set his course by it. It was, at least, a change from the empty horizons. He counted his steps out loud on the way over, and they quickened over time until, when he passed the mile marker- number 302- he was short of breath and having trouble counting.

It didn’t take any kind of medical expertise for him to, when he reached the car, work out exactly what the red, thick liquid that was congealing on the hood exactly was. It was blood, blood, fresh blood, more blood than anyone would believe existed in the human body, and he needed to get to safety now and he didn’t want to know who it was from or anything and yes of course he’d seen dead men before, he’d seen some horrific things, but that was the thing he’d seen them... and there was no body there, no sign of who had done this or who it had been done to and that somehow, that somehow made it worse-

-he had a sudden desire to turn back but he settled for running off the road and away from the scene, crying to himself as he ran and ran. Eventually he could run no more, and lay in the hot sand until his need to continue overwhelmed his desperate need to go back now and leave the Badlands behind him. And then he staggered, once more, to his feet, and returned to the road. Perhaps there would be somewhere around the next corner. Perhaps there wouldn't be. This is Zachariah Aubin, too old for this, too weak of body and most likely of soul for this, wanting no part in this, ready for none of this at all.

[Orvius]

That vigor that Gabriel restarted his trek with quickly lost its influence. Perhaps it wasn’t so much the grueling nature of his journey, as he had walked much longer and more treacherous paths in his life, but rather the dread of meeting the merchants with little to offer. While Gabriel’s hunched posture didn’t portray it, he had his pride, and he’d rather die than beg for anything. That’s not to say that fatigue hadn’t started to wear down on him; he first noticed it with the pain in his neck and shoulders from carrying the hundred pound rucksack, and his feet catching painfully on the splintered pavement as he started to drag them. More than likely, it was the dehydration that was doing it. The waves of heat he saw rising off the scalding asphalt made his eyes water, and caused him squint to seek the Trade Post he hoped to see on the horizon. Not there yet, he still had a while to go, and he knew it. He licked his cracked lips and tried to moisten the dry air of his mouth with his spit, though it barely did any good. Gabriel had a hard time deciding which was worse, the hunger or the thirst?

Definitely the thirst.

Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot... The trick he taught himself in his pathfinding days was little help. It was supposed to help him sort of ‘zone-out’ any associated pain and wear that accompanied long hikes, but his mind was too plagued with worries to be tricked by something as petty as counting steps. It thought him stupid for even attempting to distract it from the terror that lay ahead, how was he supposed to convince the people at the Post that this gasoline was worth a shit? They’re not some random scavengers you can rip off that easily; they’re the biggest damn trading post in the whole county! Oh, if only those Burned-Men had left that guy dead on the side of the road, then he could have at least taken what was left on his corpse, but that’s just not their way. No, they like to screw with their finds alive for a while. Damned if it wasn’t just Gabriel’s luck, to have run across psycho bastards and not just muggers. For a split second, Gabriel had a small pang of conscience about wishing that he could have looted his corpse, but that thought was quickly smothered out by his dire situation. Hell, what would that guy need his stuff for? That jerk-ass was pretty much dead anyway, and now Gabriel will have nothing but spoiled gasoline to show for it. ‘As if they’d fall for something like that’, Gabriel thought pessimistically as his boots continued to drag on the road. Not only is he going to look desperate, he’s going to look like a crook and a bad one at that.

“You are desperate.” Ethan reminded him, in response to his anxious thoughts.

Gabriel chatters back at the open nothingness, “Being desperate isn’t as bad as looking desperate…”

“Don’t talk back to me, I’m right and you know it! Besides, you really don’t have much of choice. Even if this doesn’t work, we can at least ask for some sort of help while we’re there.” Ethan hissed in his ear.

Gabriel swats angrily at the empty air with closed fists, “I don’t need anyone’s charity, god damn it! I can make it by myself!”

“You can’t!” Gabriel flinches as Ethan screams echo in his head, his ears now ringing with Ethan and his own anger, “Your petty arrogance will get you killed!” Gabriel bit hard down on the tip of his tongue, drawing droplets of blood as his head shook with the wrath of Ethan's shrieks, drowning out all other sound in overwhelming screeches, “You promised you’d make it there alive! You promised!!”

“I wish I hadn’t!” Gabriel cried loudly into the raging sands as he stumbled blindly through the road. His vision was spinning and the buzzing of Ethan’s fury squealed louder and louder in his ears, causing him to grasp the sides of his head in resistance, “I don’t want to li-”, just as he was about to finish his statement he bumped his shoulder into a solid object just out of his vision, sending him tripping to his knees, the weight of the pack dragging him down to his side. The ringing stopped as he scuttled to his feet to see a large metal pike planted firmly into the center of the road.

On top, a corpse sits crusted and dried to a husk, skin charred and shrunken to the bones in the heat of the sun. Lips curled back to the teeth in outrage and torso twisted in agony, it’s obvious whoever this body belonged to wasn’t put up there on his own wishes. In the stiff’s hands a sign is neatly seated, skin no doubt stuck to the sheet-metal plaque. The hand-painted sign reads “X-cues R Mess! Raidurs Shot On Site!” Another sign lays on his belly via some twine wrapped tightly around his neck, “Geronimo Trade Post 5 Milez Dat Wey” along with a crude arrow drawn pointing east down the road.

“This is new.” Ethan bluntly stated after the few silent moments Gabriel had to observe the sign. Gabriel turned to face eastward down Route 70, squinting his eyes to see past the heat-waves bouncing sporadically off the scorching tar like licking flames. Out in the distance, he did see it. A little distorted blotch standing on the crest of the next hill, its sight being a beacon of relief for all the aching bones in Gabriel’s body, triggering a sigh to escape his lips. It was close now.

“Just a little while longer, Gabriel. You have to make it.”

“You promised.”

[SaintB]

Dane could see the Geronimo Trading Post on the horizon through the haze of the heat rising off of the sand. The mirage made it appear as if water surrounded the place but Dane had spent way too much time wandering and knew that nowhere in AZ was there that much water in one place... or that much liquid of any variety for that. He figured that he should make some kind of memorial for the man who had essentially sacrificed himself for Dane's stupid/cowardly ass to make an escape from the burned men insofar as you can consider being ambushed a sacrifice but he decided that that counts. So there he was in the desert with a hunk of very hot slate in one hand and looking through his belongings to find something to write or carve some sort of message in it when he heard someone shouting, "“I wish I hadn’t! I don’t want to li-”

The shouting was followed a loud metallic thud, "Fuck me running." was Dane's initial reaction.

Dane dove onto the hot sand landing on his belly and then crawled back up the dune toward route 70 with the rock still in his hand but now for use as a bludgeon or missile or feeble little shield, the thoughts of his dead former companion all but gone now as he ever so cautiously peaked over the ditch and spotted a man (Gabriel) picking himself up off of the ground and nearly falling back down again from the weight of his backpack. The stranger dusted himself off a bit and then stared at the metal pole he had apparently run into as if he was baffled by it's presence. Maybe he was sick or dehydrated and was just kinda stumbling along? Maybe the heat had gotten to him and boiled his cerebellum or some shit or he coulda been like those cannibals he once saw that had eaten too much human meat and gone nutso? Either way Dane thought he should probably just brain the poor SOB and take his loot...

WHAT THE FUCK! What the hell kind of world was it when the first thing your friendly wandering sexy hobo thought about when he saw you was to mash the back of your skull in with a piece of slate? Chrissakes Dane calm down the dude just needed some help, or water, probably both. Disgusted with his impulse to murder another human being he tossed the piece of slate away and got up to a crouch, "Psssst! Hey! Stupid! There are burned men wandering around here and you're busy shouting and banging into metal things! What the shit bro?"

[Orvius]

"Psssst! Hey! Stupid! There are burned men wandering around here and you're busy shouting and banging into metal things! What the shit bro?"

“Behind us.”

A sharp shiver of alarm shot up Gabriel’s spine like a bolt of lightning upon hearing the words from behind him. Did someone outside of his head just try to talk to him? An unfamiliar voice just entered his typically two-man discussion and it sent him into a frightened frenzy. In panicked fever he reached for the ramshackle Remington rifle slung around his side, fumbling slightly as he turned around to face the voice with the bent barrel of his busted firearm. He was expecting someone at least at eye-level, and he scanned the range to match the disembodied voice for a few flustered seconds before seeing a crouched figure sitting in the trench a few feet off from the road. Falling on his knee, Gabriel took aim as to get on even fighting ground with the stranger. What the hell was he doing in ditch like that, poised to pounce on him like an animal? And wait, did he just fucking talk to him?! People don’t just strike up god damn conversation in the middle of fucking nowhere! People are usually too afraid to find themselves under the barrel of a gun to start blabbing at random passer-bys in the wastelands, Gabriel being one of them. What was his game? Had he been following him this whole way? Is he armed?

“ Does he have any water?”

Gabriel was fairly annoyed at Ethan’s apparent indifference of the danger they were both very possibly in. What if he did have water? This stranger could possibly want to blow his grey-matter all over the asphalt and do unspeakable things to the newly created orifice for all he knew, it’s not like the he’s never seen random acts of violence out here before. So close to a trade post, this could very feasibly be a desperate sod like him who’s taken to being a highwayman to survive. All of these possibilities were troubling, but nothing was as worrying as the gully he was entrenched in. Indeed it the low channel was the most menacing part of his position, who would know if he had a rifle under there? Ethan was being completely reckless with his concerns, though Gabriel was unbelievably thirsty, his own bodily safety was more pressing at the moment. If Gabriel was farther away from this would-be attacker, he would have just ran for it, but turning his back on the man was far too dangerous at this distance, and being shot in the back was not on his list of things that needed to be done today. Besides, in his deliriously dehydrated state, he couldn’t possibly outrun this fit looking bastard. Several awkward moments continued lingering on from that point, seconds of the two staring each other down as Gabriel tried to come up with a way to get out of this shit situation he found himself in. Finally, he reckoned he had to do something to get on an even ground with this random Badlands asshole that just decided to spark up conversation. Seriously, who the hell does that?

“Get the fuck out of the ditch!” Gabriel called out to Dane in a quivering feral nervousness, jabbing in a threatening manner with his poorly maltreated firearm. “I don’t trust you hiding down in that ditch, asshole!” Gabriel knew he was in no real position to make demands, but the threat that this stranger being down in an easily defendable spot held was too great to be unvoiced.

“ Ask him if he has any water.” Ethan prodded again in a nonchalant sort of way.

“He could shoot us!” Gabriel snapped back in a brash undertone at the skull dangling from his pack, “What if he’s one of those crazies?” he tried to whisper. After saying those things out of his panic, Gabriel looked back at the man in the ditch. Oh Christ, was he speaking too loudly? Did this guy hear him talking to Ethan? Gabriel’s brow furrowed whilst considering the implications of that.

“Look.” Ethan spoke with a smug, reassured voice, “ This man had gone out of his way to speak to you, and if he really wanted to, he could have killed you when he had the chance. So he must be in some position to want to come to a kind of agreement. Just get hear him out, and maybe we can get you some water so you do not go dying on me.”

Gabriel knew Ethan was right, he usually was. He thought about responding again with his anxious concerns, but though twice about speaking aloud to him. Surely this stranger thinking him a psychopath would deter any sort of negotiations. The fight or flight response was definitely leaning towards the flight persuasion, his stomach turning sour under the stress of what was transpiring, but he knew that he had to do as Ethan said if he had any chance of living through this encounter. Again, it’s not like any of his other options were so much better. With no bullets and a gun that doesn't work, fighting his way out was suicide, and he made a promise.

Stuttering, he tried desperately to recover from the awkward display, making a point to shoulder the rifle with more gusto then he had been. “L-Look, come on out and we’ll… uh… talk.” It seemed very odd to say that type of thing to another wanderer. Most people he saw on the highways kept to themselves, as being trigger-happy is a sort of unspoken guaranteed reaction among most people here in the Badlands. If this man wanted to talk, however, then Gabriel was in no position to not oblige him, though he didn’t exactly love the idea…

[Violante]

I feel somewhat assured leaving my bike near the entrance of the building, for one I would be able to see any would be thief through the cracked and grime covered front door, and two, most of the moving parts are so corroded that they could only really get so far before I could catch up and blow their head off, so feeling confident in the cycle's placement, I entered through the decaying doors, only to be immediately greeted by the scene of some grotesk meatstick leaning on the side of a muck encrusted counter opposite to me. Knowing the pains of haggling with business types, I have to make myself very blunt, and stand my ground for the price I see fit. I really fucking hate these mongrels.

"Hey, you fix shit, right?" I said as plain-spoken as possible, an uninterested expression plastered across my ugly mug.

In reality I feel giddy as could be; my motorcycle will be brought back from the land of the dead after all. Once the hellfire hog is restored, I'm ultimately not sure as to what my next objective should be, I suppose continue surviving, but with a sick ass bike. Huh, I'm not even entirely sure where the fuel's going to come from to power this beast, eh, these are all problems to be solved some other day, as for right now, I'm about to get a functioning goddamn vehicle. I have a strong desire to jump up and down in anticipation, the exhilaration of this situation is just too surreal to believe, for fucking once, I'm about to have something good go my way, hell I'm so excited, I might just trade almost everything in my pack. Trace amounts of adrenaline poured into my system, damnit, why won't this bumble fuck respond faster?

[Orvius]

"Hey, you fix shit, right?" I said as plain-spoken as possible, an uninterested expression plastered across my ugly mug.

NPC

GERONIMO MERCHANT

The merchant is a portly fellow with grey-peppered hair slicked back with greasy pomade, the wrinkles in his badly sun-burnt skin so deep you could toss bricks in and never fill them up. He’s rather plump for a resident of the Badlands, with jowls that flap when he talks and skin growths that look like barnacles on his forehead, face stained a glossy yellow by least a month’s worth of sweat. The gut that sticks proudly out from the small battered apron he’s wearing indicates that his shop is doing relatively well; at least well enough for him to grow fat off it, a claim not too many locals around here can hold. As well as the apron, he’s wearing several peculiar little trinkets on his person. Many little wristwatches decorate his bare arms, both digital and traditional. It’s highly doubtful that any of them work, but it makes for impressive jewelry nonetheless. Additionally, a questionably large tool-belt hangs half-way around his paunch, filled to the brim with seemingly random objects, and very little tools. The small number of wrenches and sprockets that he does have seem to be rather shiny, as if they had been spit-polished for a quite a while, the brown-beige tint they have attest to that notion. In fact, you can practically smell the rot off of them from here.

Leaning nearly his entire weight on the marble counter, he barely gives more than an indignant and slightly haughty peer out of the corner of his eye and a small inquisitive brow-raise to acknowledge Corvus’ presence as he picks one of his few teeth casually with what appears to be some sort of small animal bone. The trader seems somewhat annoyed by Corvus’ presence, as if trading was some sort of inconvenience he had to deal, just to get it out of the way and go back to whatever it was he was doing. He scoffs quietly as he re-adjusts the large head-mounted magnifier he has dangling from the harness fastened to his crown. This old man is more than likely half-blind at this point; after all he must be at least 55. The sun’s intense rays don’t often leave anyone’s vision unscaved for long, let alone this ancient bastard. Fixing the glass over his right eye he peers squinting up and down Corvus’ form, grumbling quietly to himself as he considers the prospect in front of him under a better view. After a few uncomfortably still moments, the first noise to come from his mouth is a loud, wet, hacking cough, finishing it up by hocking a thick, phlegmy gob onto the cracked linoleum tile below.

“What’s the rush, kiddo? Got some other hellhole to be in?”, the merchant croaks, his voice almost as unpleasant and throaty as the dark green snot-ball he coughed up a second ago. As a matter of fact, he sounds sick. One would get the feeling that maybe it would be wise to keep their distance from the cloud of spit he mists when he talks in order to avoid whatever disease is causing his breath to whine like that. It sounds like he’s ran two miles just from standing behind that counter, with a whistle with each exhale. “It’s not like yer burning daylight...” He cackles at a joke only he seems to understand, jowls wiggling and snot dribbling from his busted nose. Laugh turns to cough, and then to yet another chunky lump of hot mucus, wiping his dripping forehead and crusted lips with his apron after the deed is done.

“Seriously, though-” he chortles whilst clearing his throat for a second time, “-let’s see what ya got. Some useless piece of junk, I presume.” His conceited attitude shone through the damp haze of ailing breath that clouded his words as he leaned over the counter to peer out the muck-crusted front door, inspecting the motorbike from afar, clearly straining his eyes as he did. “Well, hell. Bring it in and we’ll see what we can do ‘fer me.” The merchant grumbled as scratches the growth on the side of his neck, eyes still fixated on the cycle.

[Beiarusia]

NPC

Furrowing his brow, no doubt irritated about having his display interrupted, acknowledges Alice “Christ alive, ‘ya people keep popping outta nowhere…” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes and trying to think how to quickly recap the grand show he just put on for Aaron a moment ago. He looks down at Alice and points with his bottle in hand. “Okay! Welcome to Geronimo, don’t steal, don’t shoot, don’t spit, don’t cause a ruckus and… uh…” Big Bert lightly presses the bottle against his forehead as he struggles to remember that last thing he always forgets, “Oh yeah!” he exclaims as the clarity shows tellingly on his face, “No begging. Buy something, damn it. We’ll shoot ‘ya dead if you try any funny business, comprende?” Big Bert was feeling rather proud of himself at that moment for overcoming that kind of pressure, though he’s sure that the young teen might have missed a few rules at the pace he was spouting them out.

“Comprende El Captáin,” offered Alice with a small wave of the hand, a half-hearted salute that she couldn’t be bothered to finish. Allowing the limb to fall lazily back in place at her side the young teenager offered the other traveler a small grin before waltzing on ahead through the gate and into Geronimo, the guards eyeing her but saying nothing of lackadaisical movements. Alice simply ignored them as if they did not exist.

Geronimo Trading Post was bustling with activity, or enough activity to constitute as bustling in the unforgiving nuclear wasteland. Travellers went about to various shops and merchants who in turn paraded whatever it was they had for sale. It was then that Alice remembered that there was not much to sell on her person, a problem that she had failed to consider before coming here. There was the old bottle of soda that Alice had been saving but she didn’t want to part with it unless the payout was good. Wishful thinking on her part most likely. Near everything else she owned was junk – the few shotgun shells she owned could be worth something – but maybe, just maybe, she could barter her way into having some supplies, after which she could make way for the next settlement, maybe finding something of value along the way. Her luck lately had been terrible and despite the long days walking through the wastes she had yet to stumble across anything worth scavenging. She had not died from her trek here so perhaps that was a sign that good fortune was on the way. Alice could hope at the very least.

Deciding to handle whatever happened when it happened, Alice began making her way deeper into Geronimo. Passing a shop the girl took notice of an old motorcycle leaning outside. It had obviously seen better days but was still in decent enough condition, all things considered what with the fallout and all that. Alice looked it over, enthralled with the small vehicle and unable to help but to imagine what it would be like to speed through the deserts on such a thing. She wanted one for herself and felt a pang of jealousy towards whoever owned the damn thing. Frowning slightly she tore herself away, daydreams still prevailing inside her head.

There was a gathering of sunburnt people surrounding what had once been a railcar – it still was technically but had since been converted into something more useful. It appeared to be some sort of saloon at least from what Alice could tell. Thinking this to be the best option the girl made her way towards it, pushing her way through the crowd and waiting when need be until she finally found herself at the front where she could finally speak to the person in charge.

“Hey, uh, excuse me. I need something to drink. Water preferably but I’m not too picky.” {NPC}

[SaintB]

Stuttering, he tried desperately to recover from the awkward display, making a point to shoulder the rifle with more gusto then he had been. “L-Look, come on out and we’ll… uh… talk.” It seemed very odd to say that type of thing to another wanderer. Most people he saw on the highways kept to themselves, as being trigger-happy is a sort of unspoken guaranteed reaction among most people here in the Badlands. If this man wanted to talk, however, then Gabriel was in no position to not oblige him, though he didn’t exactly love the idea…

"God damn!" that's what you get for trying to do a good deed in the barrens - some schizoid asshole points a motherfucking gun at your face!

Dane ducked down inside the ditch and hoped the guy was too paranoid to come over to him. After one or two tense heartbeats the gunman spoke, “Get the fuck out of the ditch!”

"No way man! You can come over here!" Dane answered more brashly than he felt as he scrambled around in his pockets in an attempt to find one of his shaving razors.

“I don’t trust you hiding down in that ditch, asshole!”

"Well I don't trust you with that fucking rifle so I guess we are even...", he shot back as he unfolded razor from its handle, the steel blade shined in the sunlight as he added a mumbled "Dickbag." to punctuate his remark quietly.

Dane didn't think he had much of a chance against a rifle wielding goon but he was willing to take that chance. The rifle toting maniac would have to come over to the ditch to shoot him and if he did... and the guy didn't just come around from the other end of the gully... Dane would slash him! Yeah, he'd cut him with his razor like a real badass wastelander and then take his gun and wonder who the fuck he was fooling with a plan like that - he was a fucking dead man and he knew it because nobody would be dumb enough to walk right up to him; not even a sun addled psuedo-bandit that was so desperate what to search the corpses of men who'd been dead and impaled in the sun for weeks. Besides that Dane had never actually hurt anyone before on purpose.

He didn't peak over the edge of the ditch as he launched an attack he was pretty successful with most of the time. The attack he launched was a line of total BS, "Look mister I don't got nothing! Nothing at all! But I'm in better shape than you are so you better just mosy on over to Geronimo because if it comes to a waiting game I pretty much got this in the bag!"

After speaking he tried to crawl on one hand and his knees to another part of the ditch a few yards away and hoped that the dude took the lie and left with it but then he heard a barely audible mumble from the stranger, "“He could shoot us! What if he’s one of those crazies?”

Dane became even more paranoid when he spoke so quietly. He had a friend! Shit! Now what?

“L-Look, come on out and we’ll… uh… talk.”

He really did not like the way that the other guy said that but really what choice did he have? He could hide in a ditch and get shot by one of two armed men or he could come out of the ditch and give up his stuff and maybe he wouldn't get shot. Wouldn't be the first time he did this sorta thing, "Alright alright... I'm coming out! Don't shoot!"

Dane folded the razor back into its handle and stuffed it up his sleeve before he stood with his hands raised up in the air and started to slowly come up from the ditch. He only saw the one man still there with his rifle aimed toward him, "Please don't shoot me! Tell your friend not too shoot me either, we can make a deal!"