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

[fortitudosalutis]

[ God, he hates when people take that tone. Like they're humoring his bullshit, being reasonable while he's squawking over nothing. The rules exist for a reason. Hasn't time given them a graveyard full of examples? A soldier ought to know, a soldier ought to understand that sometimes you have to make a choice: them or me. It really is that simple. Nobody wants to hear that shit, nobody ever wants to admit it, but you learn. He learned in Korengal and the fires after only confirmed the truth.

Four good reasons, Sam says, like that's going to change anything. Like it even matters. ]

Fuck this. You think you can control three prisoners on your own, godspeed: I'm out.

[ He made a mistake staying with the group in the first place. It's better to go out alone. ]

[pridecroweth]

Fine.

[ He shakes his head as he stands. He's not going to argue further — that part of him already feels scraped open and raw. ]

Leave the rifle and my bag. You ever need a hand with anything, you know where to find me.

[ The guy with the rattling breath isn't a threat. He's unconscious, condensation and blood bubbling along the trach line. So Sam hefts the kid and the woman up to their feet. He'll take the chance marching them to basecamp himself. ]

[fortitudosalutis]

Rifle's mine now.

[ It comes out flat, angry. The rifle, the body armor, that's his unless Sam wants to fucking fight him for it. He'll leave the bag because he doesn't want to get weighed down, not yet, he needs to find a good place to hole up. Somewhere out of the way where he can consider his options.

Staying with the group was his mistake. He can't do that again. It made him weak. Made him fucking sentimental, talking about fry bread and all this shit that doesn't matter like the two of them could be friends.

No. Pope taught him better. It's Carver's own goddamn fault for forgetting the lesson.

He drops the damn bag. And then he turns on his heel. He'll never see these people again. He knows he ought to shoot them all right here and now, be done with it, and it's a sin that he doesn't. ]

[pridecroweth]

[ Hurt people hurt people. Sam makes a frustrated suck of his teeth, and then: ]

Carver.

[ he pulls another mag out of his back pocket, this one for the rifle. ]

If you're gonna be a dick about it.

[ Might as well take the last mag. Sam's done more with a hell of a lot less than what he's got on him now. ]

[fortitudosalutis]

Fuck you.

[ This, with venom. Carver doesn’t turn back, doesn’t stop. Fuck these people, fuck this man in particular—it’s sentimental that’s going to get him killed, Carver thinks, furious at himself for falling into the trap in the first place. Considerable effort went into training him better. And this is he how he thanks the commander?

It’s an awful sin, surely. He deserves whatever happens to him because of it.

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t try and catch any last look of Sam’s handsome face. If they see each other again, Carver supposes they’ll kill each other. It’s how these things go. ]