psl;

[pridecroweth]

jamjar au;


monster attacks, low resources, no revival mechanics ingame but no power nerfing either.


weapons are available but hard to find. monsters are 'corrupted' but their bites don't transfer it. they are however v slow to heal.


set in a super fancy old museum with active historical displays. however, there's been lots of damage to the building/displays, few are 100 percent intact. the pcs have set up in the basement where the valuable archives were kept bc there's an actual vault.


power has been jury-rigged by pcs (idk, maybe tony stark is wandering around). water and food need to be scavenged for and rationed. maybe 30-40 pcs at present?

sam checks in with them regularly but has a 'hide-out' that's actually an old security/control room that overlooks one of the larger display rooms.

Comments

day 22;

[pridecroweth]

[ They divvy up the work. People who aren't willing — or aren't able, which are the same thing in his mind — to face the darkness get set to other tasks at the basecamp nested away in the old archival vault. People cook, clean, build shit. The rest of them kill monsters, and set up regular patrols.

Sam volunteers for it more often than not. Idle hands, his old man used to say — and he'd know, wouldn't he? Still, he wasn't wrong then, and he isn't wrong now. Away from his work, away from the pack and the kids he taught, away from that old fucking house he's been watching rot into the ground, there's not much for him to do except sit in the silence and the dark and hear gunshots the way he used to listen for the liquor cabinet doors to open downstairs.

Busy's better. Easier. Only one person ever asks him why his maps are drawn from a bird's eye view, that guy Stark. He just shrugs, and says it's how the Rangers were taught. He's not sure if he buys it — he's a sharp one, that man, one to watch — but it gets him off his back well enough.

But this mission needs another set of hands. He doesn't really want to take any of the people he likes (too dangerous) or trusts (some secrets you don't come back from) so instead he finds Carver. Tosses a pack at him. Food, water, a kevlar/nomex blended vest that's been painstakingly repaired. ]

Get up. We're going north.

[ North. No one who's gone north has made it back, but Sam's surveilled it from the air. He knows there's some sort of armament battery about eighteen miles out — it'll be at least a week, but they're running so low on ammo that somebody's gotta chance it. Might as well be them. ]

[fortitudosalutis]

[ There are days when Carver's convinced he's in Hell. Days when he's leaning more toward a mental breakdown, or an especially convincing dream. And then there are days, much like this one, where those thoughts twist and merge. The edges of the world seem to go soft like bad fruit. Press too hard and they'll give, just like that. And maybe he's been pressing a little. Testing the edges.

He likes the fighting. It's not rotters out there in the dark but the enemy is solid and dies in interesting ways. He knows he's alive when he fights. The rest of the time things have a tendency to get confusing.

But there's a pack shoved at him, a mission posed. Carver unzips the pack, examines the contents. Food. A canteen. Body armor.

The latter is interesting. They were all out of armor back home, save for Shaw's kit.

He dons it, head cocked like a dog. He knows a thing or two about this one. Calls himself Sam. Handles a gun like a soldier. Likes to get up high and watch. ]

Oh we are, are we? [ Carver drawls, just because he can. But he's already moving. Of course he is. [

[pridecroweth]

Hey, man, if you'd rather stay here...

[ He doesn't finish the statement, the threat's implicit — he can stay here and rot if he wants, but Carver's not subtle. He and idle get along like a house on fire.

Sam's already got a ruck slung across one shoulder, a rifle cradled in the crook of his arm, pointed at the ground. He's not wearing any armour and doesn't seem especially bothered by it. ]

Don't expect to be back for at least a week. You got anybody to say your goodbyes too, I'll catch you at the north gate in an hour.

[fortitudosalutis]

Just you and me, huh? Sounds cozy.

[ He breezes right past the implication that he's got anything better to do. Already Carver's squirreled away a little stash - not much, but enough to keep himself going - and booby trapped the shit out of it. He has a gun and enough ammo to keep things interesting, his knives and his whip. It's a good start. And what else is he going to do, listen to the idiot chorus chatter at each other and whine about sleeping on the floor?

Half of these people are weak. The rest of them are soft. Even the ones that know how to scavenge don't know enough. They're optimists, convinced God loves them just for breathing. They'll fall when the time comes to be tested. He knows. No point in sticking around watching.

No point in killing all of them now, either. This scheme works best with a group.

He shoulders the pack. Grins at Sam, flashing his teeth. ]

C'mon, Ranger, let's get to it.

[ Carver pays attention. He acts like an idiot grunt half the time but he clocks details. The way Sam walks, holds himself, holds that weapon. And the tattoo - telling. ]

[pridecroweth]

[ It doesn't get his hackles up. He's never tried to hide it — honestly, Sam's not sure he knows who he'd be without the Rangers. So he just lifts one shoulder in a shrug, and then: ]

Keep up or get left.

[ It's perhaps a little adversarial, but he doesn't seem to have an issue with turning his back to the guy as he heads for the north exit. Taking point naturally, because that's what he did with Hoi and Alvarez. ]

[fortitudosalutis]

Aww, and here I thought you liked my sparkling wit.

[ It’s second nature to bite down on any exposed flesh, figure out what makes a man tick. The machine of him, the shape of his soul. This place might not be real-might actually be Hell, if they’re feeling spicy—but it’s as close to real as Carver can get and so he intends to grab with both hands. Play the game out until the end.

Or at least until God or the commander tell him otherwise.

He laughs a little but follows. Apparently Sam knows where they’re going. And for all Carver’s jokes, he falls in line readily enough. This part he knows. ]

[pridecroweth]

Kinda requires you're demonstrating some kinda wit in the first place, pal.

[ Trashtalk is basically military standard at this point, and he's no stranger to it. It isn't said with any real bite to it — banter's no place for real animosity anyway. ]

You gonna do this verbal diarrhea thing the entire time?

[fortitudosalutis]

Oh, be still my delicate heart.

[ It's said in a drawl, noise for the sake of noise. The sort of needling that was standard in the Army way back when there was still an Army, still a world that could pretend at civilized. They're beyond that shit now but Carver remembers the patterns and he means to understand how these people tick. Sam's more of a threat than some of the others, but still an unknown. And if you annoy people enough, eventually they respond and reveal the interesting little bits of their selves.

Eventually. It's a work in progress.

Carver just grins at Sam. He has time. Probably something will try to kill them shortly and that'll be fun, but until then, he can bite at Sam until something interesting happens. ]

You might hurt my feelings.

[pridecroweth]

I'll be sure and be a gentleman about it, then.

[ It's desert-dry, tossed over one shoulder as he ducks and twists to get beneath a toppled display case. Glass crunches beneath his boot as he does it — long since busted out of the steel and wire frame. The old mannequin, showcasing some local regalia, is tattered and dulled by time. Its battery of old war medals is gone, taken and melted down for whatever copper or bronze they could get out of them.

Sometimes, this museum feels like a prison. And they've only been here a few weeks — who knows what the next six months might bring. ]

So, you caught me out. [ A tap to his left bicep, where the oldest of his tattoos resides. Not many people familiar enough with the Rangers here to recognize its provenance. ] Don't tell me you were Chair Force, I'd have to kick your ass on principle.

[pridecroweth]

[ It's an unceremonious end.

Sam gets the woman and kid back to basecamp. The man, ultimately, doesn't make it. But they do learn to communicate a little, bit by bit. He leaves it with the others, people who are better-suited for this sort of delicate work than he is. Instead, he sticks to patrols — solo, now. Lost his taste for the other kind, and anyway, this lets him be a bird more often. It's a lot easier to sleep tucked away somewhere high, beak tucked under one wing. He doesn't need to concern himself as much with food or supplies, though he takes care to build a few caches throughout the city.

He does make it to that battery, somewhere in the second week. It's mostly cleaned out, except for one storage container that was blocked off by debris. It takes him nearly three days to shift enough concrete and rebar out of the way to get into the container safely, enjoying the work just because it makes him sweat. He has to hunt down an angle-grinder just to get the door open — the box is half-squashed with the collapse of the building on top of it. But his efforts are rewarded with a dozen working firearms, and boxes of sealed ammunition in waterproof cases.

He takes what he can carry. Buries the rest.

He figures out where Carver's hiding somewhere into the third week. It's accidental, really — he's just enjoying a high flight in the cool morning air when he spots movement far below. Crows don't have the best static vision in the bird family, but their ability to discern movement is pretty high up the list, and no matter how well-concealed Carver is, he's not able to obfuscate movement. Sam spots him stringing tripwires across a sidestreet — way on the other side of town, away from the battery. The guy's paranoid enough that Sam's not sure he trusts him not to shoot a strange bird on sight, so he keeps tabs on him like that for a few days: the occasional lazy circle high above, playing in air currents enough that it ought not to draw suspicion.

He does make mental notes of where the traps are that he can see, and that there's likely a lot more in the building itself. He notes where Carver enters and exits, what floor he seems to have set up on. The rest is going to be a guessing game, but he's willing to take the chance.

Sometime into the next month, he packs up some of his liberated supplies. The hydroponic garden that weird-ass robot guy set up is starting to yield fresh vegetables, and between Stark and that electro-kinetic, they've figured out a way to make basic radios, so he takes one of those, his share of produce, and a box of the ammunition (Carver has enough guns, he's pretty sure) and sets out. Picks his way across the city until he's at the right street, and then he picks his way through the traps with deliberate care.

He doesn't make the mistake of trying to go into the building. He's not stupid — he watched Carver work outside enough to know that even his skills might not hold up a hundred percent against whatever traps the guy set inside. Instead, he just camps in the lobby. A small, smokeless fire, some roasting carrots. Let the guy come to him. ]

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Life goes on. It always does. You live or you die and God might honor the dead but He doesn't linger on them. Carver slips away, further into the ruins. For a while, he operates at night, moving from hiding spot to hiding spot, gathering up what supplies he can. There's not much to take but he knows this life.

In that way, it's just like home.

Eventually he finds a building that looks wrecked from the outside but the interior structure is more or less sound, and the third floor has some protection from the elements. It's near a water source and he's got enough supplies to make filters, to scavenge scraps. He finds himself a place to sleep and stash some of his gear and conceals it carefully, traps the shit out of everything else. He goes hungry for a while and then he finds more food. Sleeps during the day, scavenges mostly at night.

He doesn't sleep much. He tries not to talk to the ghosts in his corners. One night, when he's restless and exhausted, he goes into the bowels of the building and lights a candle in a corner, where he takes a charcoal stick and writes down the names of all his dead. His grandma spoke Spanish at home and taught him about Day of the Dead, how their loved ones lingered if only the living remembered them. He doesn't have any photos now but he leaves behind flat stones and a few seeds he finds in the ruins, laid out ever so carefully beneath the names of everyone who loved him and who died before him.

It goes on like that for a while, the way God intended. A test. And then one day he's out and comes back to some asshole sitting pretty in the lobby. Roasting carrots over a fire.

Carver feels his eye twitch. He doesn't shoot Sam in the back of the head but he thinks about it real goddamn hard as he stalks up, quiet and quick. ]

The fuck are you doing?

[ He's thinner than before, Carver knows, and his hair is a goddamn mess. He found a razor but most days he doesn't bother shaving. It doesn't matter. He still has the body armor and good boots, he still has weapons. ]

[pridecroweth]

Looking for you.

[ He's not going to pretend he wasn't. It's too suspicious on its own. Sam nods to the other side of the fire. If he notices the changes, well — he says nothing. ]

Sit down. Santa Claus came early this year.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver tilts his head, not bothering to hide the suspicion. The fact that Sam managed to track him down without Carver noticing is worrying; he must have made a mistake somewhere. Gotten sloppy.

Stupid, the commander hisses. Don't do that again.

Carver feels his fingers twitch and stills them. He doesn't sit down. ]

Go home. I'm not in the mood for entertaining.

[pridecroweth]

Good thing I'm not here to be entertained.

[ He turns the skewered carrots over so they roast evenly on the other side. ]

You can either listen to what I have to say, shoot me, or leave. Take your pick.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver gives Sam a narrow look. He deliberately ignores the food; it doesn't matter. It's a bribe.

He unholsters his pistol. He doesn't aim it but he has it in hand. An obvious, unsubtle warning. ]

I got no sense of humor today. And I'm tired of your bleeding heart bullshit. I liked you for a minute back there and that's the only reason your brains aren't splattered all over the fire. But I don't like you that much.

[pridecroweth]

[ Sam snorts. The carrots get another prod. ]

Do you know what Mitákuye Oyás'i means?

[ He knows the guy won't. It's Lakȟótiyapi. ]

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver just stares at him. The almost angry silence is answer enough. He wonders if he's being mocked. ]

[fortitudosalutis]

[ The fire burns. It erases the names that he wrote onto the walls but not the ghosts, never that. He goes back just once after, when the ashes are still hot, and looks for bones. He wonders if he's relieved not to find them. He wonders what that means.

Carver heads out. He takes the pack and what gear he still has, and he never did get to taste the bread or Sam's wajapi. It doesn't matter, he tells himself. It never could.

He finds a new place, colder and starker than the last. A building half exposed to the elements, bristling with rebar and sharp edges. A warning of broken concrete and unsteady floors save for one particular corner he can climb to and defend.

There, he writes the names again. Finds an exposed wall and bit of charcoal and he names his ghosts. He calls them his own but this time they don't answer. He can see them out of the corner of his eye, their shapes blurring and strange. No longer comforting.

He's out there for a while this time. The days blur. He doesn't speak to anyone, not even the dead. In time he develops a routine. Goes out at night, only ever at night, and sleeps restlessly during the day. He doesn't starve but hunger bites at him. He trains regardless, doing pushups when he can't sleep. Practicing combat forms.

It's daytime now, and raining. He ought to be asleep but he can't, formless shapes biting at him from the dark, and his throat feels tight and scratchy. He wonders if he's getting sick. If the exhaustion's taking a more physical toll.

That'll be a problem, Carver thinks, but he doesn't linger with it. He can't. So he trains with his whip, swinging at a stationary target. Listening to the echoing crack over and over again. He falls into the rhythm, almost meditative. And then abruptly he stops. ]

The fuck do you want?

[hallowing]

[ Same shit, different day. New world, new people, some looming disaster on the horizon. Cy lets people fuss and doesn't really try to interject himself too much. He works on the hydroponic garden, makes mention of having been an agricultural engineer. It's not like it's a lie. He's done just about every form of farming known to fucking man.

He doesn't really keep track of time all that much. Just sort of, you know. Does his thing. It's a whole vibe.

But he does get bored. And he doesn't like the confined space of the basecamp all that much. The fact that you can't see the sky, the stars. So he just sort of. Starts teleporting around when he's got time to himself. See what's out there. Sometimes he does it deliberately high enough up that he can just kind of freefall until he spots something interesting. Sometimes he does it based on old maps of the city. He gets lucky a lot, until he doesn't.

So here he is. Doing that whole 'step-brother, I'm stuck in the dryer' routine, except the dryer is actually a hunk of concrete that's definitely not supposed to be in this room, and now his goddamn foot is stuck in it. Cy gives it a look like it's terminally offended him, puts his hands on his hips and then Mr. Discount Bondage over there with his whip just asks him that dumbass question and Cy presses a hand to his chest theatrically. ]

What, l'il ol' me?

[ As if he could possibly mean anyone other than the dude who just teleported into his BDSM symposium, party of one. And as if he doesn't awkwardly have one foot encased in concrete — which hurts, by the way. You have any idea how fucking annoying it is to just suddenly have a part of your body trying to displace actual rock? Goddamn. ]

[fortitudosalutis]

[ There’s something so blatantly absurd about the moment that it takes Carver a moment to really process it. He snaps the whip one last time, tugging it back and coiling it up over his arm. There’s a tall man standing there, his foot seemingly stuck in the wall.

Why, Carver wonders distantly, is everyone he meets here so goddamn attractive?

He twitches. The man is still there. It doesn’t make much sense, does it? ]

You were at the basecamp, [ Carver says slowly. They didn’t speak. He doesn’t know this man’s name—if he’s even real. ]

[hallowing]

Yep.

[ He is so helpful. He sketches a bow in the air. ]

If I owe you money, no I don't. If we fucked and I ghosted you, no I didn't. If I got shitfaced and puked in your shoes — actually that probably was me, I can't hold my liquor.

[ He can, actually, but lying just rolls off the tongue so nicely. It helps that he can't tell this dude from Adam. ]

Sooooooo, this is awkward. Can you like, turn around?

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver stares at him, stone faced to hide the confusion. The words drift in and out. He’s seen this man before, from a distance. They didn’t speak. He doesn’t remember much else about.

It’s been hard to focus lately. Carver doesn’t usually miss his ghosts but they haven’t been in his corners lately and the silence aches in his chest like glass. Threatening to grind down into his marrow. And who knows what would happen then?

He tilts his head. Doesn’t come any closer. And doesn’t leave, either. ]

Why?

[hallowing]

Because I got my foot stuck up the asscrack of this wall and I kinda wanna get it out but I'm also like, the shyest person to ever live so if you see me do it I might shrivel up and pass away like a reverse Tinkerbell.

[ Jazz Hands^TM ]

[fortitudosalutis]

[ It comes out smooth and easy, a monolog almost. The kind the very best liars give. No tells for the bullshit so it might as well be true.

Carver just stares. He wonders distantly if he’s seeing things again. And then he wonders why he’s seeing an almost-stranger instead of Sam, who’d at least make sense as a ghost.

Maybe God’s unhappy with him. The commander certainly would be.

Carver just shrugs. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Sometimes the ghosts just melt away if he waits long enough. Really thinks about the logic of it all. ]

[hallowing]

[ No? Cy clears his throat, and then in a very exaggeratedly slow cadence: ]

Me shy. You turn.

[ Which he demonstrates with one hand held aloft, palm up, while his other hand does the nifty little thing humans do with their feet to, you know, fucking move? ]