'So Shiny, So Chrome' takes place 13 years after The Fall, a combination of the Oil Wars that came to a climax with a nuclear event. Our setting is the Wasteland, once the Australian outback. Wildlife mutated by radiation prowls the wasteland; weather is harsh and highly unpredictable; roving gangs of survivors fight for what remains of precious resources.
What a day, what a lovely day.
----- Season: Winter Weather: Days 8°C/Nights -10°C
Winter has descended once again on the Wasteland as merciless as ever. Days are cold, and with little cover the high winds are all the more biting; even without snow, hypothermia and frostbite are a constant threat. The only relief is that many of the Wasteland's creatures are in hibernation.
Post by Nolan 'Chief' O'Rourke on Sept 9, 2016 15:30:59 GMT -5
There was a blissful moment of quiet between them savoring the strawberries, until the all-too-familiar roar of distant engines caught up to them; looking through the scope on his rifle, Nolan cursed to see Buzzards chasing the familiar Pathfinder truck.
"We got company."
Throwing open the back hatch of the Unimog, Nolan unceremoniously uncovered the ship's bell, ringing it to signal General Quarters... or as Crash would recognize it, Battle Stations. Sure enough, the Anzac vehicles along the perimeter roared to life, a squad careening over the sand to intercept their commander and the rest already getting into their formations. As they did, Nolan rang out the count of enemies.
Even over the brown noise of the desert and pneumatic grind of engines, the brass bell rung clearly once, twice, three times, until the full count of 9. The Buzzards would be badly outnumbered by the Anzac force alone, and with any luck they'd make quick work of the unwelcome visitors and get back to business before anyone else decided to make their presence known.
Crash saw the dust a coming and decided he was tired. Tired of it all. As Nolan climbed in his Unimog, crash threw the deck lid of the Daytona open and rummaged through the different rags and blankets until he laid hands on his new toy. The barter town incident taught him one thing, big is better.
He pulled out a drum fed, 30mm grenade launcher and took aim just to the left of Thunderchild and let out a three shot barrage, the *thumpthumpthump* of the launcher almost muffled by the roar of engines and shouts. he watched the first two explode, catching a biker and what looked like a vw bug in the fire and throwing them to the wayside. The last got a little close as he watched thunderchild rock from the explosion and the poor bastard that was on the dirt bike go sailing on to the tow trucks hood.
"Oy, Scrapper might be a bit cross with me for that one..." Crash trailed off as he heard a buzz behind him. He dropped the launcher and drew his pistols as he turned and saw one of the buzzers coming straight at him.
*CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK* reported his revolvers, both of them jumping in his hands as two of the four found their mark and knocked the idiot sprawling. Crash walked over to the buzzard, keeping his revolvers trained on him. He kicked the idiots helmet off, then felt his skin go clammy at what he saw.
"We got problems." He mumbled under his breath. HE shot a look over his shoulder for half a second and saw the anzacs mopping up the rest of them so he would not pursue. Instead he grabbed the creep by the collar of his armor and drug him back to the daytona, putting a round in his knee just to make sure he wouldnt get any ideas of running off.
Post by Nolan 'Chief' O'Rourke on Nov 4, 2016 11:51:23 GMT -5
Though Nolan had full confidence in his people to quickly neutralize the Buzzard threat, he would be lying if he tried to claim he wasn't both surprised and terribly amused by the grenade launcher Crash pulled out of the trunk of his Daytona. Thankfully the Anzacs had noticed as well, and a pair of bikes that had been pursuing the vehicles Crash had picked very quickly got the hell out of Dodge, so to speak; Gunny and Kirby had their cars in formation, making quick work of the remaining cars. Their car-chase weapon of choice were nets fashioned out of wire and metal cable with caltrops repurposed as traffic spikes; a car with 4 flat tires wasn't going anywhere.
As one Buzzard blew past, Nolan took cover behind the Unimog, letting off a few bursts of fire from his assault rifle; the car didn't stop, but the driver visibly jerked from the gunfire, window splattered with blood. With Crash taking care of the bike heading towards them, Nolan paused for a moment, leveling the sights of his rifle at the car with the wounded driver, turned around to attack again; he fired once, twice, three times to be sure, only lowering the rifle when the driver slumped like a rag doll to the side, coasting to a stop in the sand.
While the Anzacs took out the remaining Buzzards and began to search for salvageable parts and goods, Nolan turned to Crash; he was dragging a screaming Buzzard along behind him.
"Apparently, this one is late for his tanning session." Crash spat as he threw the idiot hard against the Daytona's rear bump, causing the car to rock. He ripped off what was covering the bastard's head and face. The make shift head cover tore off revealing the pasty white face of a war boy solider blubbering in pain. His face had lesions on it, making him look even more putrid to behold.
Crash spat again. "So tell me this doc, why would war boys dress up as buzzards to fake a raid against a few vehicles that just so happen to be carrying the commanding sector of my group and yers eh?"
Post by Nolan 'Chief' O'Rourke on Nov 22, 2016 14:27:07 GMT -5
It would be an understatement to say Nolan was surprised to see the skeletal-looking paint on the face of the unmasked 'Buzzard'; even ignoring the fact that a War Boy was disguised as another faction, he was just, in fact, a boy. Nolan wouldn't wager he was much older than Alex, and with the tears of pain running down his cheeks it only served to make him look even younger.
"So tell me this doc, why would war boys dress up as buzzards to fake a raid against a few vehicles that just so happen to be carrying the commanding sector of my group and yers eh?"
Nolan frowned, folding his arms in thought over Crash's question and regarding the pockmark-faced War Boy on the ground. For the life of him, he couldn't imagine why War Boys would masquerade as Buzzards, let alone how they knew the Pathfinder and Anzac commanders would be here. One or the other would be a coincidence, but both at the same time?
There were bigger things at work here.
"Let's find out." He replied evenly, "He's just a kid, though. Let me try first."
Stepping closer and crouching down in front of the boy, who now had tear tracks in his white face paint and whose crying had subsided to pained whimpering, Nolan set to work without a word bandaging up his injuries and handing him his leather water skin. Crash had already done a fair job of playing the 'bad cop', it didn't look like the War Boy really needed any additional 'persuasion' to cooperate.
By the time Nolan was done, the War Boy was quiet, staring at him with wide, uncertain eyes and having nearly drained the water he'd been given. Even crouching, Nolan loomed over the kid as he looked him in the face, expression serious but not hard.
Out here, it was expected that if you were captured by another band of survivors, nothing short of hell would come of it; there was no shortage of horror stories floating around Bartertown and the Highway about what had happened to mates caught by one raiding party or another.
It fucked with their heads to be treated with kindness; every single time. And as it turned out, it was generally easier to get an answer out of someone who felt indebted to you than someone expecting to die.
"You gonna tell me why you attacked us?" He asked, his tone leaving no room for argument, "I'm a doctor; as long as you're in my care, you won't be harmed. I can't say the same for my friend here," Nolan glanced at Crash for emphasis, "If you don't."
The massive armored hulk of Thunderchild pulled up, the right front fender of the truck was scorched, the hood was dented and blackened from the grenade blast. Scrapper hopped down out of the truck and walked over as the other two worked on the prisoner. However Scrapper had his boot knife in his hands. He walked right up to the man, pushed the medic out of his way and shoved the prisoner's head hard causing the neck to tilt. For a moment the former law officer didn't say a word, then he took the knife and working quickly he slashed off the rags and bandages that covered his torso.
"I thought so," Scrapper said taking a step back.
The "warboy" body paint only went as far as his shoulders, below that was normal skin tone though here and there rivets of blood leaked from Scrapper's not to gentle knife work. The young man's skin had the start of a patch chest hair , but it was the mark across the chest that Scrapper looked at hard, his green lenses flashed in the light. There on the chest in plain sight was a professionally done tattoo. Caliber and quality of such that was a lost art in this world since the collapse of humanity. Roughly the width between the man's nipples was a large gear and on that gear was a sideways eight, the unmistakable symbol of infinity.
He turned to Crash, "Better check the rest of the bodies. Bet they all have the same markings. If they do, then this wasn't random at all."
He then slammed the sole of his boot into the prisoner's chest," and you lad will be doing a lot of talking."
Last Edit: Nov 26, 2016 18:33:56 GMT -5 by Scrapper
Post by Nolan 'Chief' O'Rourke on Dec 27, 2016 11:24:44 GMT -5
Scrapper's timing couldn't have been better, shoving the sole of his boot not-at-all-gently square into the War Boy's chest, effectively pinning him to the grill of the Daytona. Nolan raised his eyebrows mildly at the boy, who if he hadn't shit his pants in pain or terror already looked very close to doing so now.
"So," He said matter-of-factly, "You wanna talk to me, or you wanna talk to them?"
OOC: You guys seem to have something in mind, please write more War Boy NPC things?
The young boy looked back and forth, his body language and expression on his face was that of surprise. However the former law enforcement officer didn't see the gleam in the eyes to go along with the action and look of a person pleading for their life or didn't have any clue what was going on. The boy was a good actor, he had been trained well, but he was also still green to what he was doing.
"W..we just ..wanted your supplies."
Scrapper back handed the boy with his non-knife carrying hand. Scrapper knew he was lying. The boy had to know the lie wouldn't hold up. But here he was sticking to the story. Others would believe him, it was a viable story here. Bandits on a lonely road and such. But it was also a bold face lie.
"Cut the crap," Scrapper said pointing at the tattoo," you don't need supplies kid."
The boy shook his head in denial," we do. We just-"
The sentence was cut off by Scrapper pushing the knife into the middle of the chest's flesh. The mere inching of the blade made the prisoner hiss and go silent as the tip let blood trickle out in a thin riverlet.
'You just what?" Scrapper said leaning closer," And if you're expecting the good cop bad cop routine around here. Don't get ya hopes-"
Scrapper's own sentence was cut off as suddenly the body no longer had a head. One moment the brown eyes where glaring back at Scrapper's own. The next moment the head exploded apart like an over ripe fruit. Scrapper was covered with brain, eye ball goo, blood and skull chunks, something clanged off the reinforced bumper of Crash's Daytona as a moment later the echo of a rifle could be heard.
"SNIPER!" Scrapper threw himself sideways into the dirt as everyone dove or took cover.
After a moment no further shots were heard. Scrapper got to one knee, wiping the red slop from his lenses. It was while he was doing this something on the ground caught his eye.
He leaned forward,"Everyone alright?" he asked as he picked it up and then held it up between his thumb and forefinger. The distorted remains of a 7.62 NATO sniper rifle round buried partway into a chunk of metal torn out of the Daytona's bumper.
Post by Nolan 'Chief' O'Rourke on Jan 3, 2017 12:26:20 GMT -5
It was more than a little uncomfortable letting Scrapper take charge, but he'd extended his offer of peace and the boy had opted not to take it. Threats and torture had never been Nolan's style as a man of ethics or as a doctor... but if he dared to be so honest with himself, Nolan didn't doubt that there might someday be some circumstance that might lead him to abandon his moral compass.
He sincerely hoped that day would never come.
Nolan hit the deck, feeling a cold chill run down his spine at the word; he'd nearly forgotten how terrifying it was to be on the business end of a sniper's scope. Reaching into his trouser pocket, Nolan pulled out a small signalling mirror, flashing in stilted Morse code for Nate.
... -. .--. .-.
All that was left to do now was wait.
Nolan gestured for Scrapper to get back on the ground.
"Stay down," He said in a hushed tone, "No sudden--"
He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, flinching in surprise hearing the deafening *CRACK* of Nate's rifle, then a second time, before it was silent again for many minutes that felt unnaturally long. Another shot, from the other sniper, a final shot from Nate... and then a signalling mirror flashed back.
Crash had it the ground cursing about the whole in his car.
"Stop blowing holes in my ship!" He shouted out as he reached for his revolvers. They wouldn't do dick in a sniper fight but just in case the sniper had reinforcements coming he didn't want to be caught with his pants down. When Nolan called all clear he stood up slowly, still scanning the horizon.
"Look the both of ya, we are sitting targets out here in the open. We need to move somewhere more...defendable then where we are at now. My guess is this wasn't an hit job, this was more of a test or to throw what trust we have out the window and point our guns at one another. We need to move, now. Suggestions?" Crash said in a commanding tone, in the back of his head he felt like his old XO self.
Post by Nolan 'Chief' O'Rourke on Jan 4, 2017 9:26:11 GMT -5
It wasn't hard to admit that Crash was right; this attack definitely seemed planned, which begged the question who had planned it? Who was it that saw the Anzacs and Pathfinders as a threat?
There were plenty of answers to the latter question if so much as a rumor got out that they were planning on forming an alliance.
"We need to move, now. Suggestions?"
"We can't go back home." Nolan replied immediately, "Stands to reason that whoever it is targeting us expects us to run back into our holes where it's safe, find out where we are."
He thought for a moment, watching as the Anzac vehicle commanders got into formation, with the bikes tearing off into the distance to scout and the larger vehicles coming into circle the wagons, so to speak. Kirby was much more of a strategist than Nolan was, but unfortunately she'd stayed behind to assume command of the homestead in his absence.
"There's an old refugee camp about 15 klicks from here; it's not perfect, but it's a lot more easily defensible, quite a lot of debris and wreckage for fortification."
It took the group better part of an hour to make it to the suggested position. To prevent easy tracking they had taken an indirect route, as well as having to navigate around an area of sand so fine it was like coco mix. At one point the huge hulking mass of Thunderchild banked away heading south east with no warning outside of a flash of it's headlights to Crash vanishing among the dunes for twenty minutes before it lumbered back into view from a different vector, almost perfectly west on an intercept course, flashing it's lightbar on and off once. The Pathfinder's XO explained to the wary ANZACS ,while the war rig was out of sight that it was normal procedure for the Pathfinders to have a vehicle break off and double check their rear to make sure they weren't being followed.
The remains of the refuge camp were not hard to find. A collection of ruined shelters were arranged around the burnt ruins of a large church. The bell tower still rose like a watch tower above the scene but the steeple and cross where long gone, and the roof was missing. Dark soot around the windows and charred ruins in the church made it clear what had happen, but oddly the huge bell still hung in place.
Scrapper moved the tow truck toward the church, doing a slow lap around the building. Long shadows extended as the sun was now low on the horizon, and pools of darkness hid the contents of the shelters. Scrapper pulled alongside the west side of the church's remains, the wall just tall enough to hide the bulk of Thunderchild.
He watched the others, making sure that an escape path was clear.
(Clues of what is going on can be found in the music I select)
Post by Nolan 'Chief' O'Rourke on Jan 11, 2017 10:10:33 GMT -5
Nolan's mind was racing a thousand miles an hour as they plodded towards the remains of the refugee camp; whoever had attacked them, had more than enough time to take out Scrapper, Crash, or Nolan. Which meant that for the time being, their mysterious assailant wanted them alive. Why that was, though, remained to be seen.
Either way, he was certain that the Pathfinders knew something that he didn't about who was attacking them.
Though he didn't want to, Nolan did have to consider the possibility that this was a setup by the Pathfinders to isolate their commander from his people. After all, those War Boys masqueraded as Buzzards had found them by following Scrapper, and it was just a little convenient that Crash immediately pointed out that their attackers wanted the Anzacs and Pathfinders to turn on each other.
With more questions than he had answers, Nolan was keeping his guard up.
The Anzacs had frequented the refugee camp quite a bit since settling into the homestead; though it would be too generous to call it a satellite of the homestead, through the years they had gone through the motions of building the place up to be a safe house for events such as these. There were three rows of thigh-high packed-dirt barriers running parallel to the fences, hiding the deep trenches behind them; the rusting chain-link fence that surrounded the camp had been uprooted and replanted in 2 rows surrounding a much smaller section of the camp, the buildings left outside of it torn down to further reinforce the fence and trenches.
Two gates on either side of the compound headed the only ways in or out; as the vehicles stopped, the Anzacs wasted no time deploying razor wire and caltrops, and activating the landmines buried in the dirt path.
It was a work years in the making, in the event that (god forbid) the Anzacs were forced to flee the homestead. It was no replacement by far, but it was better than nothing.
Nolan watched as Nate picked up his kit and headed towards the bell tower; they'd reinforced that as well, to give their sniper a proper vantage point to do his job from; according to the man himself, with how flat the terrain was, he could see for miles on a clear night. Some of the tension released from Nolan's shoulders when a trio of flags fluttered from the roof of the belltower; one of Nolan's Marines had salvaged a string of maritime signal flags, and they'd been put back to their original use... sort of.
They'd formed their own set of codes; Crash might know what the flags meant in the old international maritime language, but he'd have no idea what it meant in Anzac code.
"Get a watch rotation set up and guards on patrol," Nolan said to one of the Anzacs, a sergeant by the name of Nguyen, "Take inventory of our supplies; I want to know how exactly long we can hold out here, and all vehicles and personnel ready to go at a second's notice."
Nguyen nodded and ran off to carry out his orders, though some of the Anzacs were already ahead of him checking their weapons and magazines. Turning to Scrapper, Nolan watched him for a moment; it nagged at the back of his mind that if the Pathfinders were up to something, they were learning more about the Anzacs' levels of preparedness and organization than he liked.
Turning to Crash, he leveled the former XO with a hard look.
Crash watched the Anzacs go to work and cursed. He finally got out of his Daytona that was parked next to the massive steel monster that was the tow truck and trotted up to Scrapper and Nolan.
He looked at Nolan and spat before beginning. "We have been too little to late on several occasions. Ya come across the burned out husk of a waster or a small village that had been ransacked and burned. All with that bloody symbol carved into something. Scouts have reported whispers around barter town as well, calling them cogs because of the symbol. We have come across their dead once or twice before, all with that same tattoo on their chest. The dead we found all had shiny new weapons as well, nothing that the fall had touched in anyway. I didn't think that they were even remotely this organized or Brazen to attack a convoy as large as ours in broad daylight. Or that they might wear disguises. I don't know if this ghost train is linked up with them, but I do not believe in coincidences. They have one or all of us marked. I don't like the idea of us staying here for any length of time, nor do I like the idea of us splitting up. We can either head for Bartertown, head for your home base chief, or..." He trailed off looking at Scrapper.
"Like I told you back on the wash, we can only survive for so long as hermits. We need some friends, more than ever right now mate." He said to his old friend.