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Ragitsu Grand Master

Ragitsu

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The taste of sweat and blood underneath my tongue, which felt warmer than usual. Before I can dwell on this development, I hear a whoop-whoop in the distance. My mind shoots back to taste as I extend my tongue and look down: the tip's redder than the rest. Bleeding, huh...

Why did I come to this?

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Nolgroth Grand Master

Nolgroth

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Acting, Breakfall, Bribery, Bureaucratics,

Climbing, Concealment, Contortionist, Conversation,

Cramming, Cryptography, Deduction, Disguise,

Eavesdropping, Fast Draw, Forgery, Gambling, High Society,

Interrogation, Lipreading, Literacy, Lockpicking, Mimicry,

Persuasion, PS: Appraising, Security Systems, Charm,

Shadowing, Sleight Of Hand, Survival (Urban), Trading,

Ventriloquism, Weapon Familiarity, any Background Skill,

Jack Of All Trades, Well-Connected, Contact

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Ragitsu Grand Master

Ragitsu

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Here is Jacob with his trap:

 

http://www.scottking.info/Pics/lostincevilgood.jpg

 

You can see a modern fish trap - this is a style used in the Southern states of the USA for hundreds of years:

 

http://cdn.memphisnet.net/images/uploads/RoundCatfishTrapNoSlat200.jpg

 

Here's a modern adaptation using wire mesh, which allows a view of the innards:

 

http://ep.yimg.com/ca/I/btgrowersupply_2120_12790770

 

Probably what was visible in Jacob's possession was only part of the trap, the "funnel" portion, which allows the fish to enter through its center but confuses the fish into not being able to exit the container portion of the trap isn't shown. Also the trap shown on the beach seems unrealistically small. The ones in the links are three to six feet long and well over a foot wide.

 

Hope this helped. Good luck, hope you catch a big one.

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Susano Grand Master

Susano

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THE FORGOTTEN YEARS

 

Few of the sins of the father, are visited upon the son

Hearts have been hard, our hands have been clenched in a fist too long

Our sons will never be soldiers, our daughters will never need guns

These are the years between

These are the years that were hard fought and won

Now the contract's torn at the edges, old signatures stained with tears

Seasons of war and peace, these should not be forgotten years

Still it aches like tetanus, it reeks of politics

How many dreams remain? This is a feeling too strong to contain

 

The hardest years, the darkest years, the roarin' years, the fallen years

These should not be forgotten years

The hardest years, the wildest years, the desperate and divided years

We will remember, these should not be forgotten years

The Forgotten Years

Midnight Oil

 

Sixteen year-old Angie Winterfox sits at the bar, sipping a club soda and taking notes on her datapad as she watches her mother shoot pool. It’s a weekly ritual that been going on for years—six, at least. Every Friday night, Chrysine Winterfox (she added the last name when she adopted Angie) has brought her daughter down to McGuire’s for dinner and then an evening of practicing pocket billiards. In the years since David Cho first taught her how to play nine ball, she’s had a table installed in the townhouse she calls home these days, but the Friday night bonding-ritual continues.

 

The initial forays to McGuire’s were a tad uncomfortable. People weren’t sure what to make of a six-foot plus Combat Class Clade shooting pool, much less one with a ten year-old daughter in tow. But as her mother’s skill increased, and Angie grew older, the other patrons stopped commenting and accepted them as just another part of the local color. Of course, it didn’t hurt that back then her mother was often accompanied by Uncle Dave and Uncle Mitch. Who’d be dumb enough to argue with the husband of the Director of XSWAT? (A lot of people actually, the world will never see the end of drunken fools.)

 

These days both Dave and Mitch know better than to challenge her mom to a game of pool. Heck, they don’t even like to practice with her. Having taken to cue sports with the same drive and determination Chrysine applies to most anything she takes interest in, Angie notes her mother is now one of the top-ranked pool players in the city, and has even gone overseas to compete. Aunt Jama (the aforementioned Director of XSWAT) even created an official XSWAT pool team (mainly as a PR move, but still.)

 

So Angie sits and watches her mother practice. It’s almost relaxing in a way. Chrysine steps carefully around the table, walking slowly and with deliberation, her gaze never leaving the table and the balls scattered there on. Then she’ll pause, ears flicking back and forth, and either take a shot or move on.

 

It’s her mother’s ears (and her tail) that interests Angie right now. You see, ever since she first came into Chrysine’s life Angie has known exactly what she’s going to do when she “grows up.” She’s going to join XSWAT. She’s going to follow in her mother’s footsteps and fulfill her obligation to the Blue Lady, who gave her own life so Angie, and several of her fellow orphans, could live. So to prepare, she’s taking an Honors psych class and is writing a paper on Clade body language, with the subject being, of course, her mother. Not that Chrysine knows this, she’s self-conscious enough (even after eight years) of her roles as a Clade, XSWAT officer, and parent, without feeling like she’s under the microscope just because her daughter wants to get an A in class.

 

Still, it’s fascinating watching her mother play pool. As she circles the table her long ears are normally flat—a sure sign she’s thinking (at least in this case). Once she sees a possible shot, they come up and forward, and there’s usually a flick once she settles on her next play. The tail follows suit. There’s the slow thoughtful lashes that suddenly still when she sees an opening. Chrysine also has a tendency to raise her tail up behind her when she leans over to make a shot. Angie’s not sure, but she thinks it’s a side effect of her human/animal DNA mix. She raises her tail to balance her body—a useless gesture when you’re six foot-two and weigh 180 or so.

 

All of this is why her mother’s a terrible poker player. She can’t help but broadcast her hand to everyone at the table though a series of visual “tells.” Of course, that’s the problem with most Clades. Heck, Uncle Tyger is worse, as he’ll not only clue you in as to how bad his hand is with his ears and tail, he’ll often cut to the chase and verbally tell you. But not with pool, however. All you know is that Lieutenant Chrysine Winterfox has seen her shot and she’s going to take it, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

 

Tara, the bartender places a black-and-tan in front of the empty stool next to Angie. "You need anything, sweetie?"

 

Angie nods towards the beer. "One of those?"

 

Tara smiles and refills her club soda. "You can have one on the house, soon as you're eighteen."

 

"So... who's that one for?"

 

"That's Dave's."

 

"Dave's not here."

 

"Sure he is." Tara nods towards Chrysine's table. Sure enough, while they've been talking, he has walked in and headed straight into the billiards area to talk to Chrysine. But Tara would've had to start making his drink BEFORE he walked in.... Angie wonders if maybe bartenders take Honors psychology classes, too. Nothing ever gets past Tara.

 

Presently, Uncle Dave lets Chrysine return to practicing billiards, comes over and sits down at the bar. He thanks Tara, takes an appreciative sip, then turns to Angie. “Heya, squirt, what’s up?”

 

“Watching my mom’s tail, you?”

 

Dave's beer very nearly comes back up through his nose as he stifles a laugh, considering and discarding half-a-dozen responses as inappropriate when discussing a sixteen-year-old's mother—even if the sixteen-year-old in question is deliberately trying to (and succeeding in!) discomforting him and desperately deserves a superbly snide answer.

 

"Ah... about to order dinner. And probably get my butt kicked at 8-ball. I can't beat her at 9-ball, but she's not invincible." Finally, he simply can't resist. "And if you get tired of watching her tail, just let me know and I'll take over."

 

That's right; Angie's suspected for a while now that Uncle Dave has a 'thing' for her mom. Uncle Mitch had said something about Dave being a big fan of her mother back in her Lace & Steel days, a subject Chrysine says little about. She's tried to imagine the two together (hey, what do you expect after a course in human sexuality?) and failed utterly. But then, no one was able to actually picture their parents 'doing it.' If it didn't send one off into gales of laughter, it resulted in a sort of green-about-the-gills reaction. Yeah, it didn't do to picture one's parents naked. Although... Angie's pretty sure there are quite a few male students at her school who do just that about her mom. It's not like every pupil has a parent genetically-engineered to be physically perfect—or as close as you can get, anyway.

 

"Well... mom placed pretty high in that tournament in Vegas, you know. So you might be in for a rude surprise." She debates telling him about what she's learned about Clade body language and pocket billiards, but decides against it. She thinks Dave already knows and... it wouldn't do him any good anyway. But it'll be interesting to see if anything changes in real competition. "Say... is it true what I heard? About Aunt Jama?"

 

"What? C'mon, Angie, you've heard enough rumors about Mama Jama to know most of 'em are wrong. Except when they're true, of course." He grins like he knew something, but she never can tell with him. (She still wonders about Aunt Jama and Uncle Mitch's second honeymoon—'wardrobe malfunction.' Yeah, sure.)

 

"So she's not going to retire?"

 

Dave shrugs. "I didn't say that. Jama's entitled to give up all the excitement of running XSWAT and live a quiet normal life if she wants to."

 

...which doesn't exactly confirm the rumor, either, Angie notes. Getting the Real Story out of Dave is going to take a little more work.

 

Taking a sip of her club soda, Angie glances over to where her mother is setting up the table for another round. The routine is pretty simple: try for a good hard break, see where everything ends up, select the best shot, wash, rinse, repeat. Her mom’s not much for fancy tricks and showing off; she apparently plays nine ball much like she fought in L&S, direct and to the point. Which may be one reason she’s so good at it.

 

“I heard mom’s gonna get promoted. To Captain.”

 

This gets a stern look from Uncle Dave. "You open all your Christmas presents early, too, kiddo?" Then he lightens up. "Chrysine's been ahead of the curve since she signed up. Normally, it'd be another year before she made the Captains' List, but yeah, she's technically eligible. So I'm betting the Powers That Be take note of that fact." Angie notices the tone of Dave's voice when he said 'Powers That Be.' When he means the 'real' powers behind XSWAT, he calls them by name—Director Renuka and her allies. But when it comes to the bureaucracy that handles the day-to-day decisions which affect the lives of XSWAT's officers, he simply says 'Powers That Be', and he doesn't always approve. In this case, he obviously expects they'd do the right thing, but he isn't certain. And if they don't....

 

"Well... Aunt Liz told me that one." Angie spends a moment writing in her data pad. Her mom's doing that 'maintain balance with her tail' thing again. She decides to redirect (and short-circuit) Uncle Dave's attention by vocally observing said fact. "I think there's something to those genetic memory theories they talk about. You ever notice my mom lifts her tail when she leans over? It's like she's trying to counterbalance her upper body, y'know?" She glances over and raises and eyebrow, waiting to see if Dave takes the bait.

 

She's still at it... sweet little sixteen wants to play head-games? Okay, then. Too bad my wing-man isn't here. Oh well, Mitch's loss.

 

He considers Chrysine's stance for a moment, and continues to watch as he replies, speaking to Angie without looking directly at her. "Sure, she's got a fox-tail, but Chrysine's mostly human—look at her stance: she's got her feet planted the same as anyone else who shoots pool. But the important thing to remember is that tail was engineered—so it might have been designed to do that. "

 

Angie turns to look at him, and starts to reply, but Dave isn't finished yet. "The only way to be really sure would be a controlled study with Clades and baseline humans. You'd have to figure out how to monitor the vestigial tail muscles and coccyx bones in the baseline humans. Electrodes are too intrusive—maybe a functional MRI scan would work. You should write up a proposal; I bet you'd get a grant. Maybe even a full-paid scholarship."

 

In a moment of desperation, Angie decides to try and score a point, since it's obvious her ploy has not only failed, she's taking on water and about to sink, fast. "Can I use you as one of the control subjects then? Or maybe as my research assistant? Sounds like you've given this some thought."

 

"Research assistant? That sounds like fun." It'd give me an excuse to watch Chrysine's tail. Assuming she goes along with it. "Just send a memorandum to Mama Jama about borrowing her number-one mechanic for a while. I'm sure she won't mind."

 

“I’m sure she wouldn’t.” Angie gives Dave a smirk. “I’ve heard her say what a bad influence you are on Uncle Mitch.”

 

"Hmmm... guilty as charged. But Mitch needs a bad influence like me. And Jama would agree that you certainly don't, young lady." Dave knows how much Angie hates being called 'young lady.' She isn't about to let him get away with that!

 

“Oh, good point. Tara? Can you have this man removed? He’s annoying me.”

 

Tara regards Dave and Angie with amusement. Dave looks worried now that Angie has called in reinforcements, and for good reason. "Sweetie, he's been annoying ME for years, and I still can't get rid of him." Rather than encourage the two of them, Tara decides to change the subject and distract them. "So is it just the three of you tonight, or will any other 'Aunts' or 'Uncles' be stopping by?"

 

“Dunno.” Angie shrugs and powers off her datapad. She’s not getting anything done for her project, not any more. “Ask Uncle Annoying.”

 

"Tara, I'm shocked that you'd say that about your best customer, especially when I bring such interesting people in here. 'Mrs. and Mr. XSWAT' will be joining us later this evening. They'd be here sooner, but someone was too busy to baby-sit for them," He glances at Angie, "...because she had to watch her Mom's tail." Which should be my job, anyway!

 

Behind the bar, Tara chuckles and goes to get Dave another black-and-tan. "We'll save 'em a seat, Dave. Go easy on the girl, okay?"

 

Angie is having none of it. “And how many years have mom and I come here on Fridays? Someone should have known better.” Slipping her datapad into its case, she looks back at Dave. “Err... Aunt Jama’s coming here? Tonight? No one told me...” she glances out to where the pool tables are lined up. “...or mom. I mean, we’re not even dressed right!”

 

Dave rolls his eyes at the girl's histrionics. "Relax, Angie. Mama Jama's coming to see you, not your clothes. Same thing goes for Chrysine. And maybe for me." He really needs to calm Angie down. "It's just a casual dinner... and Jama might not even be here until afterwards. Now what's got you so worried?"

 

“Oh, nothing,” she replies. “Just my mom’s boss, the Director and Defender, is coming over for dinner and no one told us. I mean, usually this stuff gets set up in advance, y’know?”

 

"Yeah, I know. But to some of us she's just 'Jama' and she occasionally likes to get together without checking her calendar, or more likely, having an aide check it and tell her she's already booked. So cut her a little slack, okay? And I'm sorry I forgot to tell you."

 

Having already made a good run for the title of ‘drama queen’ Angie decides to go all the way. Standing up from her stool, she leans against the bar and places the back on one hand dramatically against her forehead. “Oh... woe is me... to have my career in XSWAT cut short before it even begins. Director Renuka will take one look and reject me out of hand, saying I’m obviously unsuitable for service.” She pauses and glances over to where Uncle Dave stares at her little display. “Then again, she hired you.”

 

He smirks to stifle a laugh. "I had good references. And so do you, for the time being. Now have a seat, Angie, you're making a scene in front of all these nice people."

 

Angie complies, but not without sticking out her tongue at him for a moment. Behind him, Dave hears Tara snort at the mention of 'nice people.' She knows exactly what her customers do when they aren't at McGuire's, and for most of them, it isn't law enforcement.

 

Then he realizes what she said. "So you're serious about joining XSWAT?"

 

“Yes,” Angie replies without hesitation. “I made a promise.”

 

Where have I heard that before? Dave wonders to himself. "Well in that case, I won't try to talk you out of it. You plan on getting... wired?" He almost says 'augmented' but that word carries entirely different connotations —some of Angie's classmates have parents with more money than brains, and the start of the current school year was quite a shock for her. At least she's not trying to keep up with those idiots!

 

“Dunno...” Angie shakes her head. “Mom’s not... but then she’s a Combat-Class Clade, y’know? Also....” she looks over at Tara and hen glanced around the room. “Can you keep a secret? I mean, for real?”

 

"Are you kidding? I keep the Director's secrets... goes with the job. So yeah."

 

“I think I can talk to dead people.”

 

Dave shrugs. "Uh, that's not so weird. Wait... do they talk back?"

 

"Yes."

 

He pales a bit. "Well that should open up some... career options for you." Dave takes a long drink. "Could work in homicide. Or the morgue, if you'd rather be 'in the rear with the gear' like me. Either way, do you know what you're in for?"

 

Angie shrugs. She's seen a lot in the past eight years, both in the orphanage and in Roar Sector. "Can't be any worse than the Bogeyman."

 

Dave tries to hide his discomfort. "I heard about that. Look... " He leans closer and lowers his voice. "These dead people you talk to... have any of them been murder victims?"

 

Leaning over as well, Angie touches her forehead to Dave's. "Some. I think the Blue Lady has told them about me. How I helped her and she us. I think she wants me to help others, too...."

 

He sighs heavily. "That's good. I mean it. But... Angie, you're gonna have to deal with whatever happened to those people. And the victims in XSWAT cases tend to die in ways you couldn't imagine... until you see them. Or talk to them."

 

Aye, there's the rub. Angie knows her mom is strong, but she still suffers from the shakes some times. Chrysine's days with the CRASH team affected her deeply, in more ways than one, and it shows from time to time. What'd it do to her? "Have you seen them?"

 

Dave looks over at Chrysine—it looks like she's sweeping the table again. Is she nearly done, or will she set up another rack? Woman's never gonna forgive me for this. "Angie, you should talk to your friend, the Blue Lady—Officer McElroy. Ask what happened to her... and the rest of her squad. You keep asking until she tells you. After that, if you still want to join XSWAT, I'll back you up all the way."

 

“You didn’t answer my question, Uncle Dave.” Angie sits back and thinks about the Blue Lady and how she’s never actually said how she died. “Have you seen one? I mean, you just told me you’re back with the gear.”

 

He pauses for a long time. "Yeah. The patrol cars record everything, Angie. And sometimes, the only witness to an officer's murder is the camera. The ones I saw weren't just murder victims off the street—they were our own people, fully armed and ready, and all I could do was watch, because they were already dead when I got the files. Everyone in XSWAT gets the horror-show, even if we're just hiding in the garage."

 

Speaking of which. “Dave,” she asks, all traces of banter gone. “Is it true? What you guys say. About the officer who died... and came back. Is she real?”

 

"I've never seen her. But Mitch says he's met her, so yeah, I guess she's real."

 

“Is who real?”

 

"Hello Chrysine." I hate it when she does that! Chrysine has approached them unawares, moving in total silence without realizing what she was doing. "Your daughter is wondering about urban myths. You ever seen Corporal Benedict?"

 

The tall Clade’s ears twitch as she considers Dave’s question. “I am not sure,” she replies slowly. “I have heard of her, and Lieutenant Brogan has mentioned her... but I can not say if I have ever met her.” She pauses and then looks at the two of them. “Why? Is she here?”

 

"Ah... no. Can't think of a reason she would be. Ghosts hanging around in bars would be weird, even for Angelus."

 

“Unhunh,” Angie gives her opinion of that idea with a shake of her head. “Nothing’s too weird for Angelus. I mean, look at the three of us? A Clade, her amazingly brilliant daughter, and... a grease monkey.” She then turns to Tara. “I guess they can’t all be winners.”

 

Tara laughs and hands them some menus. She knows the routine; when Chrysine is done practicing, they're ready to eat. "Careful, sweetie. Picking the winners isn't always easy."

 

Dave raises an eyebrow. "You taking driver's ed this year, Angie?"

 

“Maybe,” she glances at her mother. “If I get the okay.”

 

Chrysine, displaying a wisdom far unlike that of some Clades Dave knew, simply looks her menu over. “Spinach salad with chicken, please” she says to Tara, before turning to her daughter. “‘The measure of a man is what he does with power’,” she quotes. “I think I should sign the release form and see what happens. Perhaps your Uncle Dave will help you get ready."

 

"Yes, perhaps he will." Dave pretends to look over the menu, already knowing what he wants. "Unless you don't want a lowly grease-monkey who just happens to have the spare keys to Mama Jama's Stozwind helping you...." He looks up and grins at Tara. "The usual, my dear."

 

“And how exactly will the key’s to ‘Mama Jama’s Stozwind’ help Miss Angie Winterfox, hmmm?”

 

Dave stops grinning at the sound of Jama's voice. Oh dear God, I am so very DEAD! He turns around and tries not to look like a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar, failing miserably. "To provide, uh... proper motivation, Madam Director Renuka!" Okay, good answer, now quick, change the subject! "Where's Mitch?"

 

“Parking ‘Mama Jama’s’ Stozwind.”

 

Madame Director Renuka stands a mere 5’4”—shorter then Angie, and far shorter than Chrysine—but still manages to dominate them all. Even her mother, who Angie is certain fears nothing, goes from relaxed to attentive in an eye-blink. As for herself... she’s not 100% sure what all the fuss is about. She’s known “Aunt” Jama for years now, and has never known her to be anything but open, friendly, and kind. However, at this moment, she’s giving Uncle Dave (the Troublemaker) that look. The one her mother used to give her when she’d been up to no good and Chrysine knew it. “Busted,” she whispers, hoping Dave will start laughing and end up flailing about madly trying to make himself not look like a goof (and failing.)

 

Dave momentarily gives Angie his best you're not helping look, (which nearly makes her crack up) then turns to Jama. "That's good, I'm glad he's here 'cause I really need to talk to him."

 

“He’ll be here in a few moments,” Jama glanced around the bar. “I’m supposed to get us a table.”

 

"Say no more, Madame Director. I'll take care of it. Table for five, or have you invited anyone else to sneak up on me this evening?"

 

Jamadigni Renuka has known David Cho for nearly twenty years and almost understands how he thinks. With that in mind, she places an index finger against her lips and stares thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I knew there was something I forgot to do.”

 

Dave laughs nervously, and signals to Tara. "We'll need a table for five... I think."

 

Tara gives him an odd look, then shows them to a high round table surrounded by bar-stools. Mitch arrives shortly afterwards, and goes to the bar prior to joining his party. He finally comes to the table with Jama's usual as well as his own, kisses his wife and sits down. "Nice to see you Chrysine, Angie. Still hanging out with this gear-head?" He gestures towards Dave, who nods Yes they are! "Well, the gang's all here and everybody's been served... so what's the big occasion?"

 

Chrysine’s ears flick back and forth, a sure sign of nervousness. “I am not sure, sir. This is somewhat of a surprise. Unless,” she glances down at Angie. “Did you?”

 

“Oh no, mom, I had nothing to do with this.” Angie has no intention of getting blamed for this, not that she expects there to be any blame, but as she said she had nothing to do with it. “Ask Uncle Annoying over there.”

 

This time Dave really does look innocent. "Hey, I just come over to shoot pool and have a bite to eat with my favorite XSWAT officer. And to annoy her darling child." He ignores Angie's dirty look (mission accomplished) and turns on Mitch. "But my boss's social secretary—yeah, that's you, flyboy—says to reserve a table. So I thought you knew."

 

Mitch shrugs. It's impossible to tell, actually, if he's in the dark or just playing dumb. In either case, that only leaves one culprit; Angie, Chrysine, Dave and Mitch simultaneously turn and look expectantly at Jama. "Do you have a prepared announcement, my love? Will you finally be putting Cadbury in charge of Internal Affairs?" Mitch gives everyone a knowing look. "She's secretly been wanting to do that for years."

 

“Not a bad idea, dear, I’ll ask him tomorrow morning when he can start.” Jama takes a sip of her drink and thinks for a moment, finger resting on her chin. Right now she’s holding court, even if it’s in McGuire’s bar, and she won’t be rushed. “I was also thinking that since Technical Sergeant David Cho will be busy helping our own Angelina Winterfox learn how to drive, that he might not find time to complete his regular duties.” She looks over at her husband, her expression one of total innocence. “You can fill in for him, can’t you?”

 

Mitch finds this amusing enough to grant her an exaggerated "Yes, of course, dear." He ignores Dave and Angie as they both smirk at him; he wonders where this is going. "And while I'm doing that, who exactly is going to be driving your limo?"

 

“Oh, that.” Jama’s brow furrows for a moment and then she looks over at Dave. “I hear on the job training is best. Do you think Angie will be up to it?”

 

At this Mitch throws up his hands in mock exasperation. "Oh that's it, I've had it. Can't take another day of this." He gives Angie a serious look. "When can you start?"

 

“Ahhhh...” Angie decides to draw this out for all it’s worth. “I’d have to ask my mom. She’s kinda strict about this sort of—”

 

“Tomorrow.” Chrysine’s ears flick as she calmly drinks her beer. “I would say tonight, but you certainly cannot be seen in public dressed as you are. And certainly not behind the wheel of the Director’s personal transport.”

 

The entire table is stunned—Chrysine never kids around. It's not that she doesn't have a sense of humor; she can appreciate other people's jokes and on rare occasions smiles at them. But for her part, she's never been anything less than completely serious.

 

Until now. Mitch responds in the same deadpan tone. "So, Lieutenant Chrysine, it's your opinion that this recruit..." he nods toward Angie, who looks quite alarmed at the word recruit, "...is fully prepared for the rigors of duty in Madam Director's office?"

 

"She will also, of course, have to maintain Madam Director's calendar, feed Cadbury and change his litter, make the tea exactly as Madam Director likes it, deal with constant requests for unscheduled appointments, fight off reporters, monitor the rumor-mill, learn to imitate Madam Director's signature, as well as keep tabs on a certain half-crazy cyborg. The XSWAT bureaucracy sends Madam Director three meters of paperwork daily, which must be kept below the one-point-five meter mark to prevent losing sight of Madam Director...."

 

Mitch holds up a hand at the appropriate height for emphasis, where his wife can just see over it. She's glaring at him, while trying not to let one corner of her mouth turn up in amusement. Mostly, she's succeeding. He lowers his hand and winks at her.

 

"Well," there is no way Angie can let herself be upstaged by her mom and Uncle Mitch. Especially her mom. She raises one hand and starts to tick items off. "It can't be that hard to keep the calendar straight; I get along great with Corporal Cadbury; I make tea for mom; I'm in high school, so I know all about crazy questions and requests; I'll just send any reporters to talk to Uncle Tyger; at school I am the rumor mill; I've been signing stuff in mom's name for years; and I know mom and Uncle Tyger can handle any crazy cyborgs.." She pauses to take a breath. "And as for paper work... isn't that what Cadbury and the paper shredder are for?"

 

There's a pause, in which Chrysine turns to look at her grinning daughter. "You what?"

 

"Kidding, mom. There's no way I can imitate your signature... and boy, have I tried!" Angie's 'I'm innocent' look fails mainly because she can't keep a straight face.

 

Mitch listens impassively to Angie's litany, hoping the way she turned Chrysine's joke around on her (if she's joking—he's still not sure) won't discourage her mother's newfound sense of humor. In point of fact, Uncle Tyger answers to the crazy cyborg in question, so Angie's mistaken on that point. As for the rest... "What do you think, Dave?"

 

Dave looks at Mitch and nods knowingly. "Sounds like a typical recruit to me."

 

"Yeah—overconfident little know-it-alls, every one of 'em. Trigger-happy, too. Did we really start out like that?"

 

"Well, I wasn't trigger-happy, but yeah we did. It's a miracle we survived."

 

“Some of us,” Jama interjects as she sips from her glass, “had excellent commanding officers to set a proper example. Besides, didn’t you two start in the APD?”

 

"My first CO was a paper-pushing slave-driver. I believe you met him once, my dear." Mitch says this without rancor, sounding almost nostalgic. "And yes, Dave and I went through our rookie year in the APD. From what I've seen, rookies are rookies, Chief."

 

He finishes his scotch and continues. "But that's neither here nor there. We're discussing Ms. Winterfox's training now."

 

“Of course.” Jama looks over to where Angie sits. Angie thinks she should feel nervous, but this is Aunt Jama after all. She’s never seen her get, y’know, angry or anything. “So, Ms. Winterfox, it sounds like you need to be at XSWAT Headquarters at 9 AM sharp Monday. And in your dress uniform.”

 

“Uhh...” Wait, this is getting a little weird for a joke. “I don’t have a dress uniform.”

 

“Oh, right.” Jama gives her a warm smile and turns to her mother. “Lieutenant Chrysine Winterfox? You need to be at XSWAT Headquarters at 9 AM sharp Monday morning. And as I said, in your dress uniform.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“And...” now Jama turns back to her. “I think you should be there as well.”

 

“But... uhm... school?”

 

“I’ll write you a note.” Jama says with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I mean, it’s not every day you see your mother make Captain.”

 

Mitch finally allows himself a grin of satisfaction. He's obviously been helping Jama plot this little surprise from the outset. "I'd propose a toast, but I need another round, here." Dave signals for Tara to join them asap. "So while we're waiting, it's my honor to be the first Lieutenant to salute you." He can't help noticing Chrysine looks more than a little embarrassed about out-ranking her former CO as he does so. "Congratulations, Captain Chrysine."

 

“Thank you, sir.” Her attempt to return the salute is interrupted by Angie’s hug. “See!” she exclaims to Dave, “I told you! Aunt Liz wouldn’t lie to me!”

 

Mitch turns to Jama for a moment, one eyebrow raised, his voice low. "There's been a leak at the office." He's warned her before that Liz talks too much....

 

"That's not the only leak our little Winterfox has heard," she replies. "Angie," her voice is louder, and causes the teen to turn. "You know that other rumor you heard?"

 

Angie blinks. How did Aunt Jama know that she'd heard that? "Uhm... the one about..."

 

"Yes, that one." Jama tilts her head slightly. "It's true. My twentieth anniversary is in six months or so, and I think it's getting close to retirement."

 

Dave is helping Tara with the next round of everyone's drinks. "So I guess you'll be leaving too, Mitch?" He looks serious for once.

 

"Apparently they've already found my replacement." He nods at Angie, who gives him her best oh get real look. "But seriously. The twins are starting junior high next year, Jama's still the Defender... I'll be busy as ever. When Jama leaves, the next Director can find a new driver."

 

"And another mechanic." Everyone looks at Dave now. "Hey, I've been on the force almost as long as Jama—longer if you count the APD years. It just... won't be the same without you two around."

 

“No...” Chrysine looks from Mitch to Jama and back. “It will not. I shall never forget my time on the CRASH team and how you helped a rookie officer through such troubled times. I am proud to say I served with you, sir.”

 

"As I recall it, we pulled each other through. We were all of us troubled in those times, Chrysine." Mitch looks around the table for a moment and remembers, then stops himself—this is supposed to be a celebration. He's got a full glass now, as does everyone else. "A toast... to XSWAT."

 

“To XSWAT,” the table replies on unison.

 

* * * * *

 

Jama sits and watches as Chrysine, Dave, and Mitch shoot pool. Or, based on her limited understanding of the game, as Chrysine destroys them. It’s funny. Mitch had Dave teach Chrysine how to play as a way of getting her to relax. And now she can defeat them almost at will. Still, they’re having fun, and in XSWAT, even these days, such times are precious.

 

“Hello, Angie,” she says as Chrysine’s daughter perches beside her on a barstool.

 

“Hey, Aunt Jama. I, um.... I’m sorry about spreading rumors. I don’t think Uncle Dave was too happy.”

 

Jama gives her a gentle smile. “If you join XSWAT—”

 

“When.”

 

“—when you join XSWAT, you’ll hear plenty of rumors. And some of them will be far worse than whatever people think I’m up to.”

 

“Like the ones about the ghost cop and stuff?”

 

“Yes. And as Dave told you, some of those rumors might just be true.” She puts an arm around Angei’s shoulders and draws her in close. “Officer Miyako Benedict died in the line of duty and came back, because she feels her duty is not yet done. However,” and here she looks eye-to-eye with Angie, “while she might scare you, she won’t hurt you.”

 

Angie mulls this over. “Easy for you to say, Aunt Jama, you’re her boss.”

 

“Point.” Jama sighs slightly. “Still, Officer Benedict and those like her serve not just me, but XSWAT as a whole. They know their duty.”

 

These’s a quiet moment as the pair watch the pool game in progress. Then....

 

“I’m going to send you a release form,” Jama says suddenly.

 

“What?” Angie sits up. “What for?”

 

“Because I think you should be earning some extra credit as an intern at XSWAT HQ.” Jama looks over knowingly. “Not only will it give you a head start over your XSWAT Academy classmates, it’ll let us examine your unique talents and how to best use them.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

“Oh, aces! That’s great!” Angie jumps up from her stool. “I gotta go tell my mom!” She dashes off as Jama waves indulgently.

 

Her rush to the pool table is cut short with the realization that someone is standing at the corner of the bar. Someone dressed in the blue of an XSWAT uniform. Angie comes to a sudden halt and stares, sparing a quick glance back at Jama, who seems to be engrossed with the pool game in progress. It’s then she realizes the figure standing at the bar is somewhat translucent—she can see the ceiling lights shining through the body.

 

Officer McElroy?

 

The Blue Lady looks squarely at her, smiles and gives an approving nod. Angie goes to wave, then catches herself, and after a second quick glance about, returns the nod. A quick look shows Jama hasn’t apparently noticed the exchange, which is all the time Officer McElroy needs to vanish from sight.

 

No one by me saw that. Angie feels a little giddy at the realization. She starts to make her way over to her mother, bursting to tell her the good news, when a sudden thought stops her cold. How did Jama know about the rumors I’d heard? Followed by a second, somewhat more frightening one. And what other ‘officers like Officer Benedict’?

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Ragitsu Grand Master

Ragitsu

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Re: Ctrl+V

 

Brandon strains in a panic to haul Jacob to safety, and Raymond watches the two round the corner. Brandon hears a screech around the corner, and seconds later the heavy slam of a sliding door, before he and Raymond watch the armored vehicle squeal into sight--and off onto the roar, nearly tipping over as it turns sharply out of the lot, billowing more noxious exhaust fumes as it speeds off towards the Wal-Mart again. Mike shoots for the tires, but misses by a sizable margin.

 

Mike and Evan are left without a third opponent--though Evan comes to find the masked aproned man merely unconscious, and decidedly still alive. The woman, seeking some sort of solace, staggers over to collapse near Raymond, sobbing into her hands. "Please don't be crazy." she snivels. "I can't take any more of this."

 

Brandon is able to resume his medical attention to Jacob, staunching the rest of the bleeding, and working at fishing free the remaining lodged slugs. The last of them it troublesome--having lodged into the bone of one of Jacob's ribs, and having cracked it in the process. He'll live, over all--but the pain will be quite unavoidable while he recovers, and for a good while thereafter; having located additional painkillers prior proves to be fortuitous.

 

The gunman around the corner, it is discovered, is no longer there--nor are his particulars. There remains several sizable blood stains in the pavement, still wet, however--and a few shards of cranial bone and spatters of gray matter.

 

Brandon whips out more successes on his medical checks, owing to his quite competent skill levels. Jacob loses another hit point to bleeding, but the bandaging process and continued attention will ultimately bring Jacob back to 1 hit point positive, and conscious once more. Then again, that also introduces him to his new world of pain, and a rather poignant desire for painkillers.

 

If investigated, a functional CB radio is found in the semi rig cab, as well as two water bottles and a half-eaten box of twinkies. Mike is down another round of 12ga.

 

 

Edit: In retrospect, John's rifle jammed up on him early in the fight, and he fought with getting the thing operational the duration. The entire combat transpired in the course of under two minutes.

 

---

 

Mike O'Neill

 

Mike yells a stream of expletives after the fleeing armored car. He becomes aware of Jacob's condition and, realizing that he can't do much to help, walks back towards the man he'd shot and kicked before. He stares down at him, sweating, brandishing the shotgun like a club. He tries to control himself as he turns to Evan.

 

"Get the rope and tie this ****ing prick up before I beat him to death."

 

He struggles to maintain composure as he stands over the prone man.

 

Post-Combat Shakes

Bad Temper

 

---

 

Markson

 

"Goddamn worthless piece of..." Markson begins as he furiously attempts to unjam his rifle as the combat went on around him, bullets flying through the air, a woman's life in danger.

 

Damnit Murphy! Why do you always end up being right?! Markson thought to himself, as he began getting desperate enough to slam the rifle on the car door, hoping it'd get the stove piped round out. As the butt hit the door, the bullet finally dislodged, falling into John's lap. He quickly cocked it and readied it for combat, only to see the truck speeding into the distance.

 

"#***." Markson states to himself. "Well... at least I didn't kill anyone today. Stay positive."

 

Then, looking at the woman collapsing near Raymond, he knows that he can at least do something positive, even if not in the firefight.

 

Getting out of the car, Markson runs to the woman, and when he gets there, introduces himself, then asks her if she's OK, or needs anything. She just went through hell, and can use as much solace as she can get.

 

 

ST 9 DX 11

IQ 14 HT 9

HP 8 Will 11

Per 14 FP 8

Attractive [4]

Pitiable [5]

 

---

 

Jacob

 

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" Jacob screams upon retrieving conciousness. "Oh my God the pain, **** **** **** that hurts!" Jacob tries to keep from moving which only makes the pain flair more.

 

"Brandon I need morphine or what ever painkillers you have, oh gezus." Jacob fluctuates between focusing on those around him and staring off into nothing.

 

"How bad am I Doc? Hurts like hell to breathe." Jacob just shuts up trying to keep the pain from overwhelming him.

 

---

 

June 22nd, 3:28 P.M.

 

With the unconscious marauder subdued and tied up, he is stripped of his gas mask and armaments, which include two carving knives, a cleaver, an ice pick, a hacksaw, a pair of needle-nose pliers and a serrated hunting knife--all of which show traces of blood and frequent use. The man looked strikingly 'ordinary' beneath his mask--he could just as well have been your accountant, bus driver, or neighborhood mailman before the world went haywire.

 

"I'm Rebecca..." the woman finally manages after the comforting helps her pull herself together. "My boyfriend Rick and I...we'd been managing, at least...going from bomb shelter to bomb shelter. But then, then those things...they ate him. I hiked alone for days. Then I hear talking, from inside the truck. It's on the radio--they were looking for survivors.." she trails off, then hugs herself, staring at the ground fairly disconcerted and aloof.

 

Mike barely managed to restrain flipping out on account of his temper.

 

---

 

Jacob

 

Hearing the female voice, "The girl, she's okay?" Taking a few slow breaths, "That's.. That's good."

 

---

 

Brandon

 

Brandon smiles at Jacob, a little shocked at his having regained consciousness so quickly. "She's fine, we all are. Quit moving. And you're stable." He continues to treat Jacob's wounds, though more gingerly now since he is awake. "Which is a miracle, really. You were shot three times." He holds up the bullets, three badly deformed 9mm lead slugs, as proof.

 

"You're going to be in a lot of pain for a while, but you'll live. Eventually you'll be in perfect health again." He fills a compact syringe with Dilaudid, and injects it into Jacob. "You're incredibly lucky. I've seen people killed by much less. Now just relax, and don't move at all, or there's a chance you'll reopen your wounds."

 

Brandon replaces the syringe and lets out a deep sigh, still not quite grasping the totality of what happened in the last two minutes. He tries to think of how they could transport Jacob out of here to someplace safe...he won't be moving around much for quite awhile.

 

---

 

Jacob

 

As the painkiller takes effect Jacob sighs, "Oh that's nice." Jacob lays there for a few moments before jolting back to reality, "Brandon listen, I used to be a heavy drug addict and I don't want to go through that again, ever! I can take some pain, I've gotten used to it a little with the injury to my hand so don't just give me it when I ask please." Jacob raises a hand grabbing Brandon's arm, "Please don't let me get like that again." Jacob will lower his hand once Brandon agrees, if he doesn't then he will plead with him more failing that breaking down crying wimpering that he doesn't want to be an addict again.

 

---

 

Brandon

 

"Don't worry," he says, grasping Jacob's own arm in turn to reassure him, "I've dealt with opiate addiction before. I won't let you backslide." He smiles again, even more warmly than before. "Besides, if you could beat it the first time, and can beat getting shot in the chest three times, you can handle this."

 

---

 

Markson

 

Markson continues to console the woman, hoping to get her calmer, at least to the point where she's not staring at the ground. All the while, serious thoughts of raiding that goddamn wal*mart go through his head. It seems the people there have gotten into a habit, and it's one far worse then the drugs Jacob is worrying about.

 

 

ST 9 DX 11

IQ 14 HT 9

HP 8 Will 11

Per 14 FP 8

Attractive [4]

Pitiable [5]

 

---

 

Jacob

 

Jacob smiles at Brandon, a bit of a goofy smile as the drugs take more affect him more, "Thanks, Thanks a lot." Jacob puts his arm down and just looks up into the sky.

 

After a few minutes, "Sorry guys I really don't want to be a drain or trouble. I just couldn't think of anything else to do but try and take him out as fast as possible. Let me rest a bit longer and then we need to find some shelter there is no telling if there are more of those assholes back at the Walmart or if they might come back."

 

---

 

Mike O'Neill

 

Mike, having calmed down a little, makes his way over to where Jacob lies. He wants to give him a reassuring clap on the shoulder but is afraid to touch him and do more damage, so instead he gives him a shakey smile and says, "Good fucking job, man, great fucking job. Like something out of a Wild West show, huh? Got some cool scars to show the chicks now."

 

He leaves him in Brandon's care and makes his way to the others and the girl. He briefly introduces himself and, trying not to scare her too much, tells the guys that they have one of their attackers tied up and alive, and how they might be able to find out some information from him once he wakes up.

 

"What Jacob said makes a lot of sense - he needs a place to hole up and so do we. That prick in the car might come back, so it might not be the best idea to stay right here. Let's get somewhere safe."

 

I'm going to have a long talk with Sleeping Beauty once he wakes up, Mike thinks - the kind of grim thought he couldn't have possibly imagined having a year ago. But then again, the world has changed.

 

---

 

The Taurus is made drive-able again by swapping out the blown out tire with the spare. It is, however, obviously the only spare you've got. The vehicle has taken a few bullets along the side, leaving pockmarked holes along the driver side of the sedan. The driver-side rear view mirror has also been shattered.

 

'Becky' is not particularly talkative yet--she needs to calm down, and a whole lot of horrible has happened in a short span of time. She does, however, provide some rudimentary answers to start things off--she's twenty seven, lived in Canton, was an administrative assistant, and initially spent the first half of the year in a shelter with her boyfriend, boss, and his family. She makes mention of the subterranean beings as 'boogie men'.

 

The grocery store has been practically stripped bare inside--even most of the shelving is gone. It would seem that the Wal-Mart 'gang' had relocated most everything of worth or function to their little 'home'. Jacob is able to identify that the weapon the gunman had been using was a Tec-9. Your prisoner does not have any identification on him. Apart from his chest wound, the bulk of which was absorbed by his thick rubberized apron, he seems fairly healthy.

 

For the sake of narrative flow, please feel free to converse and discourse for the remainder of the day, barring any sudden plans to assault precinct 13 or the like. You have suburbia available to you as potential shelter, so I encourage you to take a little bit of narrative freedom in working out just what kind of setup you deign to put together for tending your wounds, getting fed, and 'comfortably' resting up.

 

Everyone is privileged another character point. Jacob gains the quirk 'Bullet Scars' for free.

 

---

 

Raymond

 

The burst of combat was a blur, more like a dream than any of the nightmares Raymond has had recently, except that when he snaps back to reality one of his friends is still severely injured. When Brandon grabs him, he helps as best he can, applying pressure where told, and gripping Jacob's hand when the forceps plunge after the bullets.

 

Stepping back from the mess, he's relieved to have had some cursory utility in this mess, and the feeling is compounded when the women approaches him, shaken but still alive.

 

"A-a-as sane is possible, given the c-circumstances," he replies to her near-hysterical question. "I'm R-Raymond. Don't worry, w-we'll keep you safe." Somewhere off in a old, dusty corner of his mind, something clicks upon seeing a woman after over a year, but the adrenaline drowns it out entirely.

 

While the Taurus is repaired, he walks over to the packed supplies, and offers her a choice of warm cola or warm beer, and a blanket, before returning to the other's, out of her earshot.

 

"W-what are we going to d-d-do about..." He digs in his mind for a suitable pseudonym. "Leatherface o-over there? D-drug him up and get i-information out of him? F-finish him off? Th-th-those other m-maniacs are p-probably going to come back after h-him."

 

---

 

Mike O'Neill

 

Mike talks to the group about where to set up for the night. He suggests finding a 2 story house with at least a couple of exits and a garage for the Taurus - a place where he can maybe quickly construct some kind defensive fortification in case of attack, while also being somewhere that Jacob can rest up in comfort. Taking shifts at watch is essential (Jacob, Becky and their prisoner excluded, of course) as is getting the CB out of the truck and monitoring radio traffic.

 

He will leave talking to Becky to someone a bit more articulate, but plans to have a long talk with their prisoner when he awakes. He wants to find out who he is, who his friends are/were, what has happened and if he knows of any groups of survivors, for starters. He's a bit torn as to what to do with the man after interrogating him, but will probably lean in the direction of killing him if what he suspects has been going on is the case (that is, they're crazy fucks who may or may not have been cannibalizing people to stay alive - maybe I'm wrong).

 

As to things like scrounging for food, weapons etc., he'll leave that to those more qualified.

 

Applicable stats- Empathy (Sensitive) Body Language 12 Detect Lies 13, (+1 from Empathy) Intimidation 12

 

Carpentry 13 Electrician 11 Lifting 13 Masonry 13

---

 

Evan Douglas

 

Evan finishes changing the tire on the Taurus, relishing getting his hands dirty working on a vehicle again, even if it isn't a motorcycle. He begins inspecting the damaged tire, wondering if he could patch it with rubber from the Semi's tires. "Not without some good epoxy," he thinks.

 

Hearing Mike's suggestion he responds, "Good idea. You and I both have some construction experience. We could probably makeshift some sandbag barricades out of clothes left behind. I think we should focus on preparing for a counter-attack tonight. We have enough food for right now as long as we don't pig out. Brandon, I'm sure you'll want to stay with Jacob and, Rebecca, can help you inside. The rest of us will make the house as defensible as possible."

 

code:

 

HP 10/10 Will 13 Per 11 FP 9/10

 

12 - Carpentry IQ/Easy

12 - Masonry IQ/Easy

 

---

 

Raymond

 

"I l-like the idea of trying to find a s-safe place." If such a thing even really exists any more in this world. "E-Evan, you j-j-just tell me what to do. W-we can tear apart s-some of the other houses, get b-boards and b-b-bricks."

 

He turns to Brandon, looking a bit uneasy at what he's about to ask. "I-is there any w-w-way we can p-p-permanently immobilize this guy, but s-still get any information o-out of him? D-drugs, or a b-b-b-bit of surgery..."

 

---

 

Markson

 

"I can't help but think having somebody guard the guy would be the easiest and most direct way to make sure he dosn't pull anything. Especially if he's tied up. Or we could just throw the scum in a closet or something.

 

In the meanwhile," John begins, quickly changing subjects, "I'm going to search for a high vantage point, preferably one that will conceal me as well. That'll work well enough for making me useful next time... unless..." Markson takes this moment to give a dirty glance to his rifle, "this fucker jams again."

 

 

ST 9 DX 11

IQ 14 HT 9

HP 8 Will 11

Per 14 FP 8

Guns: Rifle - 13

 

---

 

Brandon

 

Brandon eagerly endorses Mike's general plan--a two-story house will allow for much easier observation and perhaps even posting a sniper or lookout on the roof.

 

It will likely take two trips from the grocery store's lot to the house they choose to set up in, given the extra passenger and Jacob's incapacity. With Jacob laid out across the back seats of the Taurus, Brandon answers Raymond's original question. "I'm actually hoping they come to get him. That would mean we get to face what's left of them on our terms instead of going after them in their little fort. They might even be stupid enough to bring all of what's left of them, but I'm not sure we're going to be that lucky."

 

Back at the house, Brandon sets Jacob up on a comfortable location, lying down on a couch found in the living room. "Honestly," he says to the others, "Jacob is pretty much totally stable. I'll need to check up on him every hour or so, but I'm able to help out getting this place ready almost as well as anyone else."

 

"As for the butcher, let's not be too quick to cash in our humanity for a little security. Let's wait until we have a better idea of what they've been doing in this town recently. I can keep him tranquilized if we need to, and I can give him some mild barbiturates to loosen him up, maybe make him a little more talkative. We've got more drugs than we need; Jacob's is the first major injury any of us has sustained so far, which is kind of a miracle if you think about it."

 

I will contribute to the prisoner's interrogation however I can. Brandon has no objections to beating the guy for information if its necessary, as its obvious that he's a murderer, but it should probably be kept to a minimum to keep morale up and to keep Rebecca from freaking out any further. Brandon will object VERY strongly to executing the guy, either before or after interrogating him.

 

 

HP 10/10 FP 12/12 Will 12 / Perception 12 Pharmacy 13, Psychology 12, Detect Lies 11

 

---

 

June 22nd, 10:21 P.M.

 

With some searching you, the seven of you find a 'perfect' place to hole up for the evening--and perhaps the next few days. Two story colonial style home with a big porch and both the windows and front door still intact--the latter of which is a nice solid construction of oak. Between the two sets of upstairs windows on the front of the house, at the top of the stairs, is a small circular window which proves an apt location for John to pull up a chair and sit at ready with his rifle while on watch.

 

Becky loosens up a bit finally, opts for the warm beer, and while the rest of you work at fortifying the place, she manages to get the stove working to a degree, cooking some of the canned food and serving it out on the household's china set--making it by far the classiest meal of beans and potato chips you've ever had. She remains fairly somber in regards to talking about what she had experienced leading up to today--but she does make conversation on how frightening things got when chaos truly set in, how she and others had made their way to shelter--and then, in a twist the six of you were more fortunate to have not experienced, how one of the survivors she had been holed up with had gone crazy, killed another by strangling him with an electric cord, then hanging himself.

 

From what she knows, however, the major cities are for the most part ground zero for the most pandemonium, given the density of their populations. Martial law took a turn for the worst, and chemical neurotoxins were employed in a peacekeeping effort that instead seemed to only make things worse with cerebrosus rioting. The disease contagion intensified, and more and more people started surviving through to stage two--and beyond. It wasn't long after that that blackouts started to hit, and those who could went underground to try and wait things out while the government 'fixed' the country.

 

Between their efforts, Evan and Mike do a handsome job fitting protective fortifications into the household--covering windows, reinforcing points of entry, and giving themselves positions of cover should something barge into the front door. A little after ten o'clock at night Mike hears something snuffling and grunting around on the porch, but nobody sees anything when investigating further. After dinner, Becky starts talking to Raymond after recognizing him for who he is--she had a penchant for trying to support local authors, and had ready one of his books. While he and she discuss the nuances, Mike and Brandon ready themselves for their chat with Mr. X.

 

 

June 22nd, 10:43 P.M.

 

Finally your prisoner is roused, the fortification efforts complete, leaving Mike ample opportunity to have a word or two with the man. Brandon administers a few choice chemicals, leaving the fellow swooning and bobbing slightly as consciousness fully comes to him. At first probing questions are responded to with smirks and sarcasm, but a few square punches help jostle that. With a bloodied lip, the man spits a glob of phlegm and crimson, confessing that his name is Mark.

 

"I'm just a fisherman." he sneers. "And you shit heads are real tough beating up a guy while he's tied up." A note of hypocrisies is made given the earlier manhandling of Becky, and his "F*** you." invites another solid punch. Who are his friends? They're fisherman too. They all are, up here in Michigan to enjoy the upper peninsula--they just never made it that far.

 

 

June 22nd, 11:10 P.M.

 

Mark's got a split lip and a swollen eye, and Mike cut his knuckle when he clipped a chip off of one of his teeth. A dangling trail of spit and blood slowly stretches down to drape from his upper lip, slumping off to the side a bit. "Twenty nine." he groans, then somehow manages a grin. "She would've been the thirtieth that we'd saved. You've fucked everything up now."

 

John finds himself dozing off a bit in his position of watch. Something moves in the darkness, causing him to rouse and straighten sharply, peering carefully out into the night. A cat hops up onto the railing of the porch across the street, hurries across it, then vanishes around the side of that house. Afterwards, there's nothing more to see.

 

Becky finds somewhere to sleep out of the way, and does so readily after an exhausting day. Raymond finds some peace and comfort burying his worries into his notebook, pen's scribblings the only real sound downstairs for a good time, save for the periodic wet smack of fist against face, or another bemoaned "**** you!" from the other room.

 

"You gonna kill me, you vigilante? You a fuckin' hero?"

 

 

Jacob gets back two more hit points. The group is down a little more than a day's full rations, feeding an additional mouth and splurging a bit on dinner as well. The fortifications go together well with the combined efforts of Mike and Evan. The house seems to have running gas services, but no electricity.

 

Even with roughing him up and pumping him with chemicals, so far Mike and Brandon haven't gotten much out of Mark.

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