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[5e IC] Tribal Beats [2075/6 Game Thread]

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Aria

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« on: (12:16:33/08-14-15) »
[Friday December 13th, 2075; Fre∑dom Host, Puyallup]

Outside the winter rain slammed into the abandoned and derelict mall, finding its way down through rusting girders and broken ferrocrete to splash insistently against the walls of the insulated trailer unit buried on the second level basement.  Inside the trailer itself silence reigned, apart from the low hiss of the ventilator that maintained Prospero’s withered and moribund form in the nutrient vat.  Two others of the Fre∑dom tribe reclined in Valkyrie units whilst their minds wandered the matrix alongside Prospero. A waiting Evo 7000 medical drone blinked quietly in a corner, impassively watching its charges…

Inside the host was a very different environment and Prospero smiled benevolently at the other tribals basking in the tropical sunshine.  He briefly regretted that he wasn’t able to feel the resonance as some here could, knowing that the presence of the Well made this host feel as real, if not more so, than the real world.  Even the cranked SIM levels of his deck couldn’t match the experience they described.  Still, that would distract him from his duties as their guardian…they, and the other secrets here, needed to be isolated from the world at large…

[Friday December 13th, 2075; Mechanical’s Castle, Hells Kitchen/Orting, Puyallup]

NikNak straightened, rubbing the small of her back as she popped out her earbuds and dropped them into the charging cradle on her belt.  Flinging her tools into the carrier she headed back up the companionway with the promise of food forefront on her mind.  Using her AR gloves she scribbled out a quick message

<<@Control [NN]: Turbine 3 should be good to go… I’m knocking off now but yell if the damn thing goes down again, bloody thing is older than my Grandma’s tits!>>

She scrabbled across the courtyard, ducking against the ash laden rain, grateful for the respirator keeping her face from freezing in the sleety muck.  The canteen was a haven of warmth and laughter.  Despite the setbacks the tribe had faced recently this place was a new start and now that the hydroponics were up and running down in the town there was even something appetising on the menu!

[Friday December 13th, 2075; The Perimeter, Orting, Puyallup]

Cam slunk along in the lee of a crumbling wall, alert for the sounds of his watch as they patrolled in the crappy weather.  The norms were tucked up safe and sound, at least for now, and he was the thing keeping them safe, as it had always been…just that now he had the virus coursing through his blood…and the hunger that came with it.  His tongue flicked unconsciously across the sharpened fangs, tasting the gritty water that ran down from his greying scalp.  His pale cybereyes flicked back and forth hunting for movement, any sign of life other than their own…
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Jack_Spade

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« Reply #1 on: (12:45:41/08-14-15) »
Thorn hated this. Since the move his commute had become a real pain in the ass. He loved riding the Yamaha through the rough terrain, but the icy rain made that even more dangerous than the ill-maintained and garbage strewn streets already were.
Yet he wasn't going to give up this bouncer-gig. For one the pay at Red Lace was quite decent and the girls gave him a discount - as long as he kept the mask on.
Few of them could stand the look of his acid-scarred face - a little souvenir of an especially dissatisfied customer. Thorn had made it a habit to stop by and spit into the gully where he had dumped his body.

He knew he could earn more if he'd put the hours in, but in the battle between going to work and going to work out the latter usually won. But the gym was closed for the day and so he was driving back to the tribe.
Damn, he was hungry. Beating sand sacks and blank johns gave you an appetite. At least the canteen would still be open now.
Thorn opened up the throttle and sped up a bit more as his destination came into view. It didn't do to appear a cowardly driver - and the thrill was after all exactly what he liked so much about riding a bike...
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pistolgrip

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« Reply #2 on: (14:46:05/08-14-15) »
*thunk* "Ah, dammit!" came the cry from under the hood of the vintage 2032 Ford F-155E. Bent stood up from having been hunched over the engine block, rubbing the back of his head where he'd hit it on the hood on the way up. This old truck will be the death of me. His fingers traced the beginnings of a small bump just starting to swell as he walked around the truck to put away his tools. He pulled his fingers back and looked at them, finding no blood at least. But there was still plenty of grease. He grabbed a cloth and wiped off his hands, barely making a difference on the black-stained skin. He clicked off the heater and the lights before locking up and heading out. The rain was freezing, but the thick fibers of his jumpsuit kept it at bay for a few moments at least. Still, his thinning, salt & pepper hair did nothing to keep his head warm or dry, and chilling rivulets ran down his stubbly, sunken cheeks and dripped from his chin. More water found its way down the back of his suit or stung around his eyes as he pushed into soggy streets. It was moments like this that he most wished he could get that truck working, but old Bit had been adamant about him doing this one on his own. Repair work was a lot tougher than guard duty, and did more to foul up his mood than let him blow off some steam. All the same, he was glad he didn't have to be walking around outside in this for any longer than a few hundred meters. As he made for the Canteen he turned his comm off of silent and went over his missed messages. As usual, nothing. Maybe it was his history, or his way with people, but Bent just didn't have many friends, even amongst the tribe. But at least Bit could be counted on to bother him about how the truck should have been running weeks ago. Maybe he'd run into him later so he could tell him just how impossible the job really was.

Csjarrat

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« Reply #3 on: (15:49:31/08-14-15) »
The mist began to clear a little and cog shuffled uncomfortably to peer through the scope once again, checking for signs of activity around the den. A flicker of tail shot across his Crosshands and he snapped into action, tracking and leading the target as he inhaled and held it. The rifle kicked hard into his shoulder and the wild dog hit the ground with a spurt of pink as the round exited it's flank.
He let the breath out as the empty case clanged down the stairway to his side.
His pulse steadied and he checked the opening of the den once more; no activity.
Springing to his feet, he drew his knife and took the rifle down to the ground floor, slinging it before Hopping onto his bike and driving the 500 yards or so to the kill.
His torso ached from laying prone for so long and it was a relief to get moving again. The wild dog was an adult, female. Probably had pups in the den. Fuck.
Ah well, couldn't let a good bit of meat go to waste.
He strapped the corpse onto the rigging over the back wheel and headed back to base.
The ride would be long, he'd had to head further afield since the wideheads expanded out of their usual hunting grounds, but the chance to catch up on some music on the ride home was well anticipated
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ScytheKnight

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« Reply #4 on: (19:55:45/08-14-15) »
[Friday December 13th, 2075; Mechanical’s Castle, Hells Kitchen/Orting, Puyallup]

The room was small and slightly cramped, but for Ratchet's talents that made it perfect. The room was setup as a clinic and surgery, the one oddity was the candles. They where burning not only for the sweet scent, but as reagents she used for the spell to sterilize the room. This was why the small room was perfect as even with her limited talents she could sterilize the entire room.

Her arms where steady as she worked on the stitches, one a dusky brown, the other an artifact of brassed chrome and exposed tubing and joints. While most preferred the sleekness of fully plated limbs the Mechanicals appreciated the beauty of function, not just form. The orc tribal grinted slightly as another stitch was place, looking at the dwarf working on him, her face almost completely hidden behind a set of goggles and a respirator, the former enhancing her vision and the later more to prevent her breathing any bacteria or other contaminants onto the wound than filter the air she's breathing in.

The last stitch in place she sprays the wound with an antiseptic and places a bandage over it, a minor healing spell finishing the procedure to speed the body's natural healing along. Osha might be the community's healer, but also the community's leader. Ratchet, although not as trained often dealt with the minor injuries, both to continue her training and let Osha focus on more important matters.

The orc grunts and gives a tusked smile "Thanks Ratchet, feeling better already.". The procedure finished Ratchet reached up to lift the googles and lower her respirator. The features revealed show just how mixed her bloodline is, her dark skin showing her African American heritage while her face shows a mixture of Asian and Native American influences. "Null sweat, just take it easy. I don't want to have to do this all over again because you've pulled all the stitching out."

She grunts a little, knuckling her back from being bent over for so long, the wound was minor yes, but she was still learning so it took time for her to get things right. Fishing into a pocket she looked at the time on her comlink and grunts. Time to get something to eat. her mechanized hand reaching out to pinch the flames of the candles out, there was still a few drams worth of power left in them, no sense letting it go to waste. That reminds me, I'm practically out, need to talk to that damned snake about getting some more. Wicca reagents aren't the most common out there. She leaves her small clinic behind and reaches into her pocket to fetch a packet of cigarettes, popping one out in a long practiced motion and settling it between her lip, the hand of her cyberarm lifting as she brings her thumb to the cigarette tip. The tip folding back with a tiny spark as a flame ignites the tip before it closes again.

She takes a long drag of the cigarette, holding it in her cybernetic hand as she exhales with a weary sigh and starts walking to the cafeteria.
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saithor

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« Reply #5 on: (10:27:43/08-15-15) »
Gunther Raddick muttered uncomfortably as he walked through the rain, he was a cold-blooded creature after the SURGE, and the lowered tempature the rain's were causing was making him sluggish. Not majorly so, but it was still annoying. He had just gotten done doing rounds with each of the tribes, selling his wares. Being a free agent was dangerous, but in some ways better than affiliation. He didn't enjoy the protection of anybody, but he didn't really get any emnity for it, and most everybody owed him for something. Next up was the Mechanicals. He felt approval from his mental spirit, not any actual astral discussion, just a quick flash of agreement. The Fire-Bringer liked the mechanicals, because of their tinkering and creating, etc., etc. They were decent people, and if he ever did have to affiliate himself with a tribe, they would be high up on the list.

It was a short walk, and one which had the changleing on the edge the entire way. The one problem with their mechanicals was how dangerous the neighborhood they had chosen was. One hand was on the hilt of Predator V, the other ready to throw a Fireball at whoever popped up their head. Every noise, every glimpse of movement, it set the changeling on edge. He almost spreinted to the Castle when it came into sight. He went to the front door and pounded on it with one gloved hand. "It's Raddick. I'm here to offer my services, yess?" he said. Curse the blasted SURGE for changing his vocal cords to the point where he drew-out his S' and felt compelled to put the word yes at the end of everything!

The response from inside was quick, and thankfully not telling him to feth off. The door opened and a Mechanical with a rifle gestured for him to come in. The changeling came on in, and the change in tempature was immediate. "Nobody to meet with you at the moment, probably be a couple of hours. Just go wait in the cafeteria until you're done." Gunther nodded in thanks, and then walked to the cafeteria.
« Last Edit: (10:34:03/08-15-15) by saithor »
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« Reply #6 on: (13:43:51/08-15-15) »
"Alright...just a little more...wiz!  AHahahah, you were a slippery little bastard, weren't ya!"  Straightening up from his stooped position, a middle-aged man used one hand to lift up the goggles from his eyes, the other wiping the sweat from his brow that was mixing with the frigid rain coming down.  The air coming from the respirator over his face formed a small mist before him as he wiped excess rain from his slicked back hair, his back cracking a bit from the stretch.  Reaching down again, he picked up his prize: an old abandoned I/O processing unit, pried from the clutches from a long derelict water regulation pump...or was it a power conduit?  Regardless, it's useful.  Alrighty, would you look at the time.. 

Shrugging off the excess water from his coat, Pinion looked up to the sky with a small smile as he blinked twice, pulling up a quick message to go out to his teenage daughter, who as far as he knew was at home wrapping up studies.

<<"Quitting time, Mel.  Dinner at the Canteen tonight.  I'll see you there?">>

After a quick reply of affirmation, the man gave a physical nod, even though he was the only one around.  Opening his bag, he popped the processer inside with the other knicknacks he managed to recover...most of it was junk, but he did intend to work on it, possibly get something together that would be worth selling off.  But that was by the by...it was a long day, Pinion was hungry, and the promise of decent food today was too good to be distracted from.  Lumbering from the scrap heaps, the man made his way through the Castle to the Canteen.

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« Reply #7 on: (00:42:47/08-17-15) »
[Friday December 13 2075; Mechanicals' territory northern boundary; Orting, Puyallup]

Scrapheap wiped the ashen rain from his goggles, keeping his eyes trained on the three gangers sporting Dire Wolves colors approaching the gate of the junkyard he was crouched inside of.  The defense call had come in half an hour ago, and the maimed ork was far past tired of feeling the chill seep into his bones even through the insulation of his armored long coat. A thought brought up the dedicated comms channel his 'link was hooked into.

< Any others comin', Eyes? > 

< None that I can see, boss.  They shot out the two working lights at the ends of the block, but that's all. >

< Good, dis should be quick, den. Burner, Slag: gimme covering cross fire if they do anythin' dumb. >
 

Scrapheap barely waited for the acknowledging answers of the other two members of the team he was leading before racking the slide of the shotgun gripped in his hands and stepping out from behind the stack of flattened sedans he had been watching from. "Dis is Mechanicals turf, get da fuck out!"

To their credit, only one of the three go-gangers started at his appearance;  the other two reached for pistols at their sides.  The sharp crack of automatic rifles sounded before either of them could clear the weapons from their makeshift holsters;  one dropped to the ground dead, the other fell clutching the ruin of his arm.  The remaining ganger threw his hands in the air, and even through the rain Scrapheap could smell the tang of urine.

"Throw your gun on da ground, slowly, an' I won't blast ya.  Twitch, an' yer dead, scan?" The ganger complied, tossing it to the side several meters from him.  "Now, go back an' tell Howler dat she don't want war wif da Mechanicals."

A shudder ran through to boy at the mention of the gang boss' name, and a mask of defiance slipped over his face.  "You can't hold this turf forever, trog.  We're gonna take it, and it's gonna be s–" The roar of the Remington cut him off, and he slid bonelessly to the ground.  Scrapheap glared at the corpse for a second, then stomped over to the ganger holding his arm and moaning.

"Yer boy dere didn't lissen, so now it's yer job.  You hear me?"

"Go...go fuck yourse–
"  The ganger screamed, then vomited on himself as Scrapheap wound up and kicked him where the bullets had shattered the bones in his forearm.

"Last chance, shit-for-brains.  You gonna take da message back, or 'm I gonna cut yer heart out and feed it to ya?"  The ganger nodded, tears flowing down his ash-smeared face. "Good.  Get runnin', den."  The ork stepped back, holding the badly wounded ganger squarely in the sights of his shotgun.  He kept him there until he tottered out of sight several blocks down.

< Eyes, anythin'? >

< Nope, he's still going...wait.  He just fell over.  Don't think that message is getting through, boss. >

< Sorry, Scrap.  The rain screwed up my aim, I was trying to hit his hand. >

< Meh, Howler'll get it either way.  An' stop wif da damn trick shots, Burner, dis ain't no fuckin' trid.  Dumptruck's gonna have yer ass  an' mine fer breakfast if ya keep it up, neh? >

< Yeah, boss, I get you. We takin' their bikes as salvage? >

< Yup.  If yer dumb enough to fuck wit' us, yer gear's ours fer da takin' after.  Eyes, send a call to Scavenge Control, tell 'em to bring a truck around.  We'll ride back wif 'em, no way I'm walkin' in dis shit. Keep an eye out tho', we're still on da clock. >


It took twenty minutes for the flatbed to roll up through the back of the junkyard, and another half an hour to get the twenty-year-old Rapiers up onto it and secured, with an uneventful ride back.  By the time Scrapheap tromped into the canteen he was more than ready for a hot meal.
« Last Edit: (11:13:04/08-19-15) by ChromeZephyr »

adamu

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« Reply #8 on: (17:18:35/08-17-15) »
Al stalked along the two hundred meters of completed wall, admiring his crew’s handiwork.  He was soaked to the skin, and he had to keep his Lucky Strike cupped in his palm for it to stay lit. Somehow, as usual, the fine grit of volcanic ash had found its way into his left Doc, the grit squelching around between his toes as he moved tenaciously through the gray muck.

Most of his crew were gone - the mortar they were using to fuse the collection of scrap materials they’d gathered wouldn’t set in rain like this, so he had them in their makeshift warehouse pre-fabbing some of the gates.

At the end of his own stretch, he came to the makeshift barrier some geniuses had thrown up before Bit had tapped him for this job. They’d stacked old stripped-out cars four and five high, which was a great idea except that they’d soon run out of dead cars, and without knowing what they were doing it had turned into a giant, deadly game of Jenga, with slippages endangering passers-by.

Loathe to have the effort wasted, however, he now had some guys securing the structure in such a way that a couple of well-place charges would tip it over onto any attacking force.  Yeah, he envisioned little surprises like that all along the wall.

Jumping up onto an old ’42 Jackrabbit, he peered into the rain. Couldn’t see shit. No, was that a bit of movement in that line of houses to the northeast? He hefted his hunting rifle and peered through the scope. There was Cam, leading a squad of Greys on patrol.

He’d never really taken to Cam. Bit of a girly-man in Al’s book, and all hoity-toity with that non-smoking crap. But what had happened to him that night...Al and Spike had done their part, took out the freaks’ leader, but they couldn’t be everywhere at once. Lot of good folks had died that night, folks Al had known. And then some had done worse than die. Time was, Al would have no truck with ghouls whatsoever. Knowing a few put a whole new light on things, he had to allow.

If the hippies knew who had sent the CHUDs their way, they hadn’t shared with Al. There was actually a lot they wouldn’t talk about with him, not actually being a member of any of the urban tribes in their little alliance. But they’d put him up when he’d needed to lay low, and done more for him since. So when the attack convinced them to move deeper - much deeper - into the worst of the Barrens, he’d volunteered to go along and help out for a while.

And besides, he’d figured out the the wise guys were closing in on him. Sure, he’d finally gotten them to leave his Khmer pals alone, but now they were more peeved than ever at him. He couldn’t stay out of their sight forever, so he’d reckoned he’d best get out of their reach.

So now here he was, rain pelting his uneven features in a suburb-cum-moonscape. At least the rain kept the dust down. The dust meant a mask. To protect your lungs. And he hadn’t yet rigged up a mask he could smoke through.

Thinking about not being able to smoke made him think of the cafeteria. Which reminded him he was hungry. He thought of stopping at his place to get some dry clothes, but hell, they’d just get wet too. Pulling his ancient brown leather jacket tighter around his skinny frame, he set out on the short walk, water and ash pushing between the toes of his left foot with every step.

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« Reply #9 on: (22:59:20/08-17-15) »
"To go? Why?" said the cook at the Mechanics cafeteria. "Please, you do not want a fussss, yesss?" said Gunther "Then Pleasse jsut make it to go. I have a skin condition. I don't want to ssscare anybody." The cook gave the changeling the evil eye, but while muttering stuffed a bag with the food that Gunther had ordered. "It's not going to be hot." The cook said, and sighing, Gunther muttered "Oh, don't I know it." He would love some piping hot food for his cold blood, but reheating it at his aprtment would have to do. Taking the food, Gunther checked his comn. Hopefully somebody would be avaliable to meet with him about a deal soon. The changleing went over to a nearby table where he sat down, looking weird even among the Mechanicals with the layers of coats, fedora, and gas-mask with tinted lenses. Anything to keep people from identifying him as a changeling. Down here that could sometimes be considered as bad as being a ghoul, and Humanis would be sure to mark his location for if they ever went into the tribal areas in force. He spotted a mechanical that he did recognize as she walked into the cafeteria. It would have been weird if he hadn't the two of them being in the same trade, and he walked towards Ratchet as she entered.

"Ratchett, you don't know where I can find Osssha, do you." Gunther asked, trying to keep his distance and his tongue deferential. He had no doubts about his status as a non-member of the tribe. "Or someone else I can deal with, yess? If I can't make a deal here I need to get on the road before I run out of daylight. I'm not so good at nightss." He needed the nyuen, but he couldn't afford to just sit at the Mechanicals all-day. Besides, staying in one place too long, it wasn't something he liked doing unless it was his apartment.
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« Reply #10 on: (08:27:48/08-18-15) »
[Friday December 13th, 2075; Mechanical’s Castle, Hells Kitchen/Orting, Puyallup]

The canteen, a repurposed machine hall, echoes with the loud laughter of people who have escaped the rain and bitter cold.  The cavernous space is full, most of the tribals having dragged themselves up the sharp incline to the Castle.  Although the big move is now more or less complete there still isn’t a sufficiently large space down in the town below where everyone can gather…and after the events of the summer the gathering feels all the more important, to remember those missing and share the giddy relief at their own survival.  The smells of cooking mix with the slightly rank odours of a mass of unwashed metahumanity but nobody cares…
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Jack_Spade

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« Reply #11 on: (09:09:39/08-18-15) »
Thorn didn't particularly care about what he found on his plate. It was hot and plenty, which counted more than anything else for him right now.
He had found a place on one of the few relatively intact tables. Normally he avoided eating with others since he had to remove his mask - usually that made people lose their appetite. But he was cold and hungry and today had no time for the sensibilities of others. The Tomahawks he carried stuck out slightly above his shoulders and made it awkward for him to lean back, so he sat hunched forward, staring down and shoveling his meal into the scarred mass of his face.
After finishing his meal in record time he wiped his mouth and put the mask back on. Only now did he make eye contact with the others on his table. Stuffed and content he did something he usually never did: Engaging in small talk:
"Damn cold outside. Getting into downtown is a damn chore nowadays. But at least the devil rats don't come out in this shite weather..."
« Last Edit: (17:08:02/08-18-15) by Jack_Spade »
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« Reply #12 on: (11:50:18/08-18-15) »
Bent sat with the ugly ork and tried not to look up. The guy's face could make dinner reverse direction, so it was better to just pretend he wasn't there. But the great thing about this guy, Thorn, was that nobody liked to sit too close to him, and the ork himself didn't try to start stupid conversations.

"Damn cold outside. Getting into downtown is a damn chore nowadays. But at least the devil rats don't come out in this shite weather..."

...most of the time.

"Devil rats is just target practice." Bent replied simply while still avoiding eye contact. The truth was, Bent liked company. But whenever he opened his mouth around these tribals, he always seemed to regret it. So anyone who would hang around without talking too much was alright in his book. Hopefully this guy with the melted face wouldn't get too pissed at whatever foul-up inevitably came from Bent's own mouth. He'd picked up the informal slang of the tribe well enough over the course of a few years, though it still felt a bit like he was mocking them. Maybe they felt it too, and that's why they didn't get along so well. Oh, they were nice enough to him, and they worked with him perfectly fine, but outside of work hours, everyone seemed overly busy with anything that didn't involve him. Just as well though, he was a damn fine professional for breaking into locked and potentially dangerous buildings, walking a patrol, and soon, fixing cars. So at least he knew they'd be cornered into being polite to him for the foreseeable future.

He chewed and swallowed a bite before making a gun-shape with his thumb and index finger. "One shot." He added with a *click* of his tongue, returning his hand and mouth to the task of eating.
« Last Edit: (18:57:19/08-18-15) by pistolgrip »

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« Reply #13 on: (18:55:53/08-18-15) »
Al finished his smoke and then had another one before going in, standing half sheltered under the dripping eave of an outbuilding. He could understand if it was a church or something, but banning cigarettes in the damned cafeteria?

Stamping the filterless Lucky Strike out in the mud, he considered that Cam’s new condition meant he wouldn’t be there...why not...no, some other self-righteous flower child was bound to start whining, and his useful-guest status didn’t leave him much grounds for complaining.

He went in, watching his step on the cement floor, slick with the water dripped in by dozens of other soaked workers. Locked his rifle in a rack by the door. Loaded his tray with soy-curry on top of a bed of starch curdled into the shape of rice grains. But he had to hand it to the hippies, the carrots and potatoes were real. Damned earthens had got the hydroponics up in no time, a miracle made doubly impressive by the fact that several of their tanks had been mysteriously destroyed in the ghoul attack.

Swinging a short leg over the bench at one of the less crowded trestle tables, he caught the end of an exchange about killing devil rats. That one’s name was Bent. Al knew a lot of the Mechanicals by name at this point, though he didn’t mix much when not working. This one had always struck him as smart, but a little off - something about him didn’t mesh with the hippy vibe of the place.

Some of the others at the table he also recognized, some not. The ork in the mask was a bit creepy - the empty plate in front of him suggested that Al had just missed a peak at whatever it concealed.

He nodded at those nearest and got to eating.

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« Reply #14 on: (12:22:44/08-19-15) »
[Friday December 13 2075; canteen inside Mechanicals' Castle, Hells Kitchen/Orting, Puyallup]

Scrapheap remembered to set his icon to < ON DUTY > a couple steps into the canteen after seeing the weapons lockers, but not quick enough to avoid getting a scowl from a couple of the more prissy tribals at the sight of the shotgun slung behind his shoulder. Like we'd be here wifout all da guns we have. Shitkickers.  Besides, the brass-chased stock and red-and-gold-enameled dragon maw surrounding the barrel of the Remington were as much a part of what he did within the tribe as the drip controls they used in the hydroponic setups. 

Two members of another fireteam made room for him in line, muttering darkly about the recent incursions into the tribal territory in between complaints about how slow the press of metahumanity was moving.  Scrapheap commented occasionally but for the most part just kept an eye out for a place to sit and eat his meal, right up until the plate of pungent soy and vegetables was put into his hands.  Spotting a strangely empty table in the throng of tribals and visitors, Scrap made his way none-too-gently to it and dropped onto the bench.  Seeing who he shared the table with, he understood the availability of the seats.

"Dunno why you keep dat mask on, Thorn.  Dese fucks have 'ad plenty a'time seein' my ugly face wifout gettin' sick...well, most of 'em anyways."
« Last Edit: (00:11:10/08-21-15) by ChromeZephyr »