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pridecroweth) wrote2020-08-27 05:10 pm
pridecroweth) wrote2020-08-27 05:10 pm
psl;
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.
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.
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[ That's said with a bit of wry amusement. ]
Vending machines all empty, no weapons, no medical supplies. Defibrillator with no power in the security office. I haven't gone higher than the second floor, though, so could be something upstairs. We can always check it out on the way back if we come back empty-handed otherwise.
[ He doesn't like casing buildings. Too many unknowns. In theory, he could land on the top floor and work his way down, but he hates close walls and confinement. Gets antsy when he can't see the sky. ]
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Little things matter.
Carver hums, accepting that. ]
This place is still in one piece. More or less. Probably won't crash through the floor if we do it careful on the way back.
[ Probably, he says, with the air of one who's done exactly that and doesn't care to repeat the experience. ]
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[ 'Probably'. ]
I've got some rope in my bag. We go through any dicey areas, probably not a bad idea to tie off somewhere stable.
[ He's less worried about himself. Bird magic trumps falling floor, as long as whatever's above him doesn't give out at the same time, in which case he'd probably chance it in human form. ]
No unnecessary risks. I don't want to have to princess carry you back to basecamp because you stubbed your toe.
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[ It comes out in a drawl, faux lazy. His grin shows teeth because sometimes you have to be that, wear that mask, or fall into a hole you don't ever get out of. The kids needed him to be confident and bold, the foil to Shaw's calmer presence, and if that meant playing up the reckless angle, that's what he did.
Only, the kids are all dead. And Shaw's been shot. He remembers the boom of the gun, the way that she screamed as she bolted. But he never saw her fall, doesn't know for sure what happened. And if he didn't see it, then she can't be dead. ]
I can make climbing spikes, [ he adds, because that's useful information and he's not so far gone he's hoarding all of that. Not just yet, anyway. ] If it comes to that.
[ He has good boots and sturdy gloves on. He won't tear himself open climbing this shit if he needs to. ]
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[ They pass an open-concept office. Desks he's searched. There are family photos, discoloured and moldering from the effects of inclement weather, that showcase a people that are almost human-looking, but with some uncanny differences that makes it hard to tear your eyes away. Like watching a CGI movie and being aware that the people onscreen don't move quite right, don't look quite right. ]
You believe this makes me all nostalgic for my desk job?
[ He says that almost idly, pausing to leaf through paperwork at a desk. It's not a language he recognizes, but he can tell it is a language, repeating patterns and symbols. ]
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Even so, he pauses to go through one of the desk - just in case. There's a pencil case, or something that looks like a pencil case, tucked into the back. He gives it a little rattle and then opens it up, searching through. Comes up with a little pill bottle and an unrecognizable label. He gives it a shake to show Sam and then tucks it away.
Might be useful. Might poison them. Who's to say? ]
Nope.
[ He keeps moving, ignoring the photographs on the desks. Strange, smiling ghosts. ]
Nostalgia's a trap. What'd you do, anyway?
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I'm a detective in Chicago. Ninety percent paperwork.
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No shit. Why'd you go there?
[ It's not all that surprising. A lot of the guys he served with went into law enforcement after, or tried to. Those were the ones who weren't completely messed up, though. The Reapers filled their ranks with the ones who were too crazy for civilization. ]
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[ People who don't live on a Rez have a way of getting scattered. ]
Mom was a lawyer specializing in tribal litigation. She cared a lot about land and water rights in historic territories — she started working with the Potawatomi back in the eighties, Chicago was central to a lot of her work. Once you put down roots, have a few kids... gets harder to leave.
[ He knows that'll say a lot about his upbringing and privilege, and so there's no attempt to downplay it or deflect it. His mom wasn't rich on her own, but his old man was — and it made life a lot easier than it would've otherwise been. ]
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[ It makes sense, Carver supposes. You go where the work is and then you stay. The Reapers never had that. They wandered from job to job, one deployment after another, until the whole world became a war and there was no home to go back to. Maybe if he hadn't gotten so messed up, if his grandma hadn't died while he was deployed, he might have gone back to Colorado. Made something of himself there, where people knew him. He'd thought about going to college once, a long time ago.
He puts those thoughts away. They don't matter now. ]
You like it, being a cop?
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[ Everybody wanted to work narcotics or homicide. Those were the 'flashy' jobs. But Sam stopped giving a shit about flashy after Iraq. It was Billie who made him realize what he actually wanted was to build a village. Make a difference where it mattered. Most days, it's the only reason he gets out of bed. ]
I could take or leave the coworkers. [ A few are okay. But for every guy like Donnie, there's six others who expect him to answer to Chief. ] But I like the work.
[ It's hard. Heartbreaking. He's had kids spit venom at him and wield abuse and trauma like a knife. He's had little girls try to flirt with him to get out of trouble, because that's what they know. What they've learned — or more accurately, what they've been taught. He's had boys cower from his size, and just as many who started doing the mental math on whether or not they could take him with a knife.
But there's also kids who've never seen someone that looks like them on the other side of that desk. Who've begun to come around to the idea that maybe there's more they can be meant for than just treading the same patterns that residential schools, genocide and trauma cut out for them. ]
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[ The Reapers were full of fucked up kids who turned into fucked up adults. Sometimes in Afghanistan they called each other the orphan club, a joke that wasn't really one because who wants to admit they've got nowhere to go, no one to come and take the flag if they died? And then of course there was Matthew, but he doesn't want to think about Matthew in this place. Cannot think of Matthew here, among all the bones and rot and broken glass. ]
What'd you like about it?
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I teach Hapkido down at an old rec centre in the south side. You buy a kid a pizza on a birthday their parents forgot, that stays with them. The rest is... hosting movie nights, video game tournaments. I've brought my older sister in to teach kids how to make drums, or medicine bags, or how to do winter counts on hide.
[ That's not the job. It's obvious he's talking about after-hours, but it ripples outward. People see him in the community, without a badge, without a gun. They see that he plays basketball with a knee brace, they see that he'll sit still to have a superhero mask painted on his face, they realize he's human too — like they are. But the truth is — he volunteers to keep his hands busy. Anything he can do. It's not selflessness, it's not some innate goodness he has. It's because if he stops, if he spends more time alone in his own company than he can stand, he's not going to come back from that. ]
Most kids just need hope. They do the rest for themselves. But when they trust you — when they have faith that they can fall and know you'll catch them, dust them off, get them back on their feet, that matters. You get to watch as some kid who was into shoplifting, or petty arson, or whose deadbeat parents got them into meth when they were ten years old — watching those kids as they realize that there's something else out there they can do, or be. That's the job.
[ There's a slight upwards tick of one shoulder, as the fridge proves fruitless and he stands — ]
I had a kid quit meth cold turkey when I told her I'd never even tried pot. She didn't realize it was possible to be an adult and not be on drugs, it was such a normalized thing for her. Moments like that make it all worth it.
[ There are plenty of bad moments, too. He's had kids get shot, or overdose. He's seen all the bad endings the world has to offer. But the good things, that's what he has to focus on. ]
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Maybe you just try, in a world where you've got room to try. And he thinks of the younger Reapers he tried, like Bossie. The ones who were primed to flinch if you raised your voice too much. A lot of them died, but some made it through.
He tries not to think about Bossie, stepping around a broken desk and a mess of shadowed photographs. The glass in the frames all cracked. ]
You were good at it, then.
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[ For no real reason, he rights a chair, tucks it back beneath the desk. ]
Sometimes you make out all right. Sometimes a kid stabs you in the knee with a pen. Never know what you're gonna get.
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Ouch. You shake it?
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[ He's hilarious. ]
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Had a kid smash my nose once when we were sparring. Blood everywhere. The sergeant set it like that.
[ He snaps his fingers. ]
And I’m still pretty.
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[ The heteronormativity is real tho?? ]
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Who the fuck eats crackers in bed? Goddamn.
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[ There's a door up ahead that will lead him past the fountain he'd mentioned — he gestures to it, nudging aside a broken monitor with his foot. Gently, just in case. IEDs never sleep. ]
C'mon, it's this way. Just, ah — there's some gnarly skeletons on the other side of the door.
[ Bodies that were once hung from the artistic exposed rafters above the fountain. It's not the work of monsters — humans, or whatever the local species called themselves, did that. ]
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[ Gnarly, huh? Carver wonders why counts for Sam. What sort of corpses rank, worthy of mention instead of just a passing glance, never to be thought of again. He follows, checking again for trip wires, for other nasty bullshit, and then he sees them.
Carver tilts his head, expression unchanging. The bodies sway. ]
There anything on them worth taking?
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[ He's never been that desperate. But Carver has been, he thinks. Some of the skeletons are still hanging, some have since fallen down. It looked like a massacre, and some of the bodies were — small. He's largely left them alone on his last couple trips through this building. ]
If you're feeling adventurous, we can pat 'em down for pocket change.
[ No judgment to the station. He understands, even if he doesn't practice, that sort of careful combing-over. Death and bodies don't make him antsy in the least, but he prefers to be respectful. No telling what cultural observances would've been appropriate here, in the memory of people long dead. ]
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[ The laces especially are useful, even if the shoes won’t fit. Carver shrugs, crouching down to examine one of the fallen. Digging through the pockets. ]
I’ll swing around on the way back.
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We can take a break. I've got a few bags, we can fill one up with useful shit and leave it here out of sight. If we end up getting forced to take another way back, we at least know it's here. No one has to lone wolf it.
[ he slings his pack down from his shoulder, lays the rifle down. A quick rummage through the bag brings up one of the extra bags he'd brought, heavy canvas but not overly large, and he tosses that over to Carver to catch. ]
You take that side.
[ A nod to the spot back along the wall, far from the windows overlooking the damaged street. He doesn't think about it strategically, at least not with any conscious thought — but Sam always prefers the action that puts him closer to danger, lets him stand between it and others. Even when those others are soldiers themselves. ]
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