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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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It happens like that sometimes. It felt like this after he got blown up the first time. When the shrapnel shredded his armor and then him underneath. That could've gotten infected, too. It didn't.
He shrugs at the question. ]
Same thing that happened to everybody.
[ The world burned. He didn't. The Reapers didn't. ]
You ever been firebombed?
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Yeah.
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[ Carver watches the fire for a long moment. Listening to the embers crackle. He doesn’t look at Sam. ]
Wasn’t the smell that got me. It was the grease. I could feel it against my skin. In my throat. Everything was so heavy, afterward. People got stuck to the ground and they’d just lie there, all their skin gone. Crying. It took them longer than you’d think to die.
[ It’s said softly, without much emotion. ]
God wanted us to learn a lesson that day.
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And what lesson was that?
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We run into the fire. God loves us until we falter.
[ Best not to falter. ]
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Some people find God in foxhole. Others lose him.
Sam worries the edge of the bandage. Then: ]
Let me guess. Sparing people is faltering.
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[ This, too, is said without much emotion at all. They didn't draw the lines quite so stark in the beginning. They tried their best to spare civilians. In the very beginning, when they had a baby to take care of, they even tried to join a couple groups.
It ended bad. God was teaching them a lesson there, too. ]
I don't get off on it, [ Carver adds. That seems worth clarifying, even if it's all still abstract and distant. He's a monster but he never hurt anyone just for the sake of getting off on it. He saw people on the road who did. ] I'm just practical now.
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[ His hand is throbbing. It's taking over his mind like a drumbeat, he keeps having to flex his fingers so the sharp jab of agony overrules the drumline of constant midlevel pain. He realizes his nose is dripping blood again only when he can taste it at the back of his throat, and he reaches up gingerly to assess the damage. Not the worst he's ever had, but he's going to look like hell tomorrow, and it'll hurt for a couple weeks as the cartilage knits. He rubs his thumb along the bridge, which feels a little — mushy, and then pinches it between thumb and forefinger until he can more-or-less set it back straight with a twitch. He exhales. Then: ]
I get it. The place you're from makes that shit necessary. But you need to leave room for nuance here. Can you trust, at least, that I'm not out to get you?
[ He could've killed him. Could've hurt him, and didn't. He hopes that counts for something. ]
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[ He knows it's not personal. It so rarely is. Even if Sam doesn't go for him today, it'll happen sooner than later. Doesn't really matter why. It'll just happen.
Best not to be blindsided, the commander always said. ]
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Okay, well, that sounds like a you-problem.
[ When you spend a significant amount of time around gen-z and younger, sometimes you pick up the slang. ]
Anyway, back to my original point. Santa Claus.
[ The packets he'd originally set aside are rounded up and stuffed back in the duffel bag, and then kicked over to Carver. ]
Don't spend it all in one place.
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That's almost nice, on balance. Nothing hurts. Nothing really matters.
He doesn't ask why. They already went over that. Sam's certain of his answer, that much is clear. He'll hold to it regardless of cost. And why not? He's already bled for it. Taken a blade through the hand. That's not the sort of thing you shake too easy. It'll leave a mark. It probably hurts like Hell right now.
And he remembers Sam talking about the kids back home, the girl who got off meth. The kid who stabbed him in the knee. Carver wonders if he's become a project like them, a grown ass man whose knife went through Sam's hand. By right, Sam won their fight. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted.
Which is, apparently, this.
Carver looks away. He doesn't touch the duffle bag. ]
How'd you find me? [ he asks instead. He thought he'd been careful, but clearly he messed up somewhere. ]
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[ He jerks one shoulder up into a shrug, wiping his face with the bandages from his hand. ]
Not just a pretty face over here.
[ All of which he's confident he could have figured out on his own anyway — might've just taken him longer, without the benefit of flight and a crow's excellent distance vision. ]
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Carver hums at that. He accepts it. ]
You won't find me again.
[ He'll leave. Never come back to this place. Conceal himself somewhere darker and stranger, and never again forget his training. ]
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And why's that?
[ He has no doubt Carver means it. But Sam isn't going to make it that easy for him. He left four brothers in the desert — that's a failure he takes serious as the grave. Carver might be fucked up, but there's kinship enough here that he's not going to give up on him. What's a little stabbing between friends? ]
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[ He says it softly, watching the fire. He knows he ought to have lunged for Sam at least six times by now. Ended this. The commander would demand a reckoning for why he hasn't. You don't let an enemy live. The consequences for doing so have been proved a thousand times, to brutal ends. Dixon was only the last of many. ]
And I'm not going to kill you tonight, but that won't last.
[ It's a sin to hold back. He's sinning against the commander right now by not ending it. ]
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So, let me get this straight. You're going to crawl off into a dark hole somewhere and sit alone because you're convinced you can't have friends? Comrades?
[ my guy. ]
That's not living. That's just surviving until you die.
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If I find my squad here, I'll go with them.
[ But he's pretty sure they're all dead now. He thinks he might be dead, too. It's funny, he thinks. He was so certain he'd be able to rest when he died. Instead, it seems like it's more of the same. ]
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[ Yes he is going to keep asking these questions. Sorry, Carver. ]
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[ He will, eventually, end up killing some people for supplies. It’s just how these things go. Carver’s gaze drifts back to the fire. He’s tired, he thinks. He can’t remember the last time he slept without bad dreams. ]
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[ it's said with a bit of a shrug, one shoulder levered up. ]
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I make the civilians nervous.
[ It doesn’t bother him, really. He observed it from a distance. Accepted it. He cannot trust these people. It’d be easier to survive in a group but why bother pretending? That’s not what the commander wants, which means it’s not what God wants. ]
You should go back before your hand gets even more fucked.
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[ The second part gets a snort, and he waves his good hand. ]
Don't worry about my hand. It's not part of the conversation.
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Where's my gun?
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[ He jerks his head to indicate the direction. Carver said he wouldn't try to kill him tonight, but whatever delusion he's got rattling around his head cautions Sam against taking his word for it. If the man comes at him again, he's going to make good on that promise to break his arms — even if he has to surprise him with being a bird to do it. ]
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He pulls his knees up to his chest, watching Sam, watching the fire, trying not to look for his ghosts. Wondering what the fuck they're supposed to do with each other. Sam doesn't make any goddamn sense. ]
You gonna fuck off or what?
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