Fallout: Remember the Alamo

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by CosmicWeinerDog, Feb 5, 2013.

  1. [​IMG]


    Act One:
    Burnt Offerings to a Dead God

    [video=youtube;csYPuGhoggU]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csYPuGhoggU[/video]


    "I don't fuckin' care what you have to do," the shrill voice of a slaver chimed through the grime coated receiver of the radio terminal. It might have been the catch for the season or the stress involved toward its upkeep, but the warden sounded pissed. "When Shamu don't get fed she gets Cranky, and I'm not keen on having three tons of meat knocking on my door looking for its next meal. Get the ol' bag her dinner or I'm going to pitch you and your boys in the stadium come the next event."

    "Sure thing boss..." The radio crackled back broken and almost indistinguishable. The fuses would probably have to be checked again but now was hardly the time for it.

    As the warden hung up the receiver he ran a hand through his matted hair and eyed the numbers on his ledger. Twenty seven new bodies had come in which set the grand total to two hundred and thirteen. Even with generous figures, the overhead costs associated with that kind of figure were more than could be supported with the resources on hand. While the warden was no stranger to conducting miracles, there were limits to even his resourcefulness. Even with the recent staffing from the "Ticks" chapter outside Pleasanton, the current staffing of guards was set at a ten to one ratio. Normally some rifles and an especially bulked out raider would keep things peaceful but at this rate it was getting too packed. If things kept up this way, there would need to be a purge in order to keep down reckless behavior. Examples made to keep the new blood pacified.



    The warden spun in his chair to face away from his desk and stared out the smoke tinted patch job of his office window. The glass was warped but clear enough to make the kingdom of which he had forged himself since setting up in the Texas Commonwealth. Rails of iron and steel crisscrossed patterns along the sun bleached remains of an amusement park gone sour. Tanks which would have once held water years before had been cleared of debris and surrounded by walls of scrap metal salvaged from ruined constructs scattered about the grounds. According to the pamphlets that weren't burned beyond recognition, this place was once a haven that families would bring their kids to gawk at performing fish. Not all that different from its current state if you took the time to think about it. The tanks get stocked with meat, said meat attracts a customer basis and said customers enjoy family fun entertainment for a small fee. It was a little slice of Paradise cut from the ashes of a bygone world.

    Sea World.

    Rather than sporting fancy flipping fish, the tanks of today held more appropriate livestock. The chapter thought he had lost it when he decided to place roots down here. Lacking any semblance of high ground and being centrally located, the park served as little more than an eyesore of prewar architecture. The water and its livestock had all been vaporized in the initial bombardment, leaving nothing but huge tanks dug into the ground. What was still standing was either nothing of value or had long since been raided by wandering parties. Where the rest of the gang saw nothing, the Warden saw potential. If nothing of value could be salvaged from the ruins, then he'd just have to bring something here.

    As it served, the tanks made perfect cages. The smoothed out cement of the tanks made for almost impossible climbing surfaces and outfitting them with a basic wall and roaming guards completed the effect. Stocking the tanks was child's play. Turning over some of the shit holes these Texans called towns would yield enough supplies to cover food, water ammunition and most importantly livestock. However as the grounds expanded and the tanks found themselves more and more packed, The warden found himself at a bit of an impasse. His empire was suffocating.

    The chime of the Warden's Radio pulled him from his thoughts, "Boss," a different voice than the whipped lackey from before sounded over the transmitter; "The spectators are filling up the seats over here. If you're still planning on introducing this I'd start making your way down."

    The warden turned to his desk and lifted the receiver from the unit. "I'm on my way." he mentioned with a cold tone that crackled into the beaten system. Hanging up the voice piece the warden calmly exited his office and made his way across the remains of the park.

    He didn't often get his hands dirty these days, so walking the grounds was his only real means of gauging productivity as the days went by. As the warden left the building, he passed along several rows of boxed plywood that had been converted into above ground planters. In this end of the wasteland, growing anything at all was just shy of lunacy unless it was constantly watched and tended to. Using ground soil was a joke and even "good" soil had to be chemically treated to yield any results. Luckily the park happened to have plenty of spare hands to tend to remedial tasks. As the warden passed along, he eyed several dozen chained hands tending the crops diligently while held at gunpoint. He smiled as he cleared the fields and crossed into the stadium.

    In the early years, doing anything that even considered this level of growth would have been little more than a wet dream. While gated, Sea World sat in the middle of a valley and was a complete nightmare from a tactical stand point. The grounds were too far spread out and defending the location took nothing short of too many guns and raw man power. Yet another one of countless reasons that long term sustainment of the site seemed unrealistic in the beginning. Truth be told plans had been set in motion to abandon the location and leave the livestock to rot in search for new digs. It would have been a near crippling loss for the chapter, but as it stood it didn't look as if there was much else of an option. Without a means to defend the ground, growth became a damning catch 22. Too much would attract attention and bring along larger raiding parties against them. Too little would mean risking burning out. The only alternative would be if the property could not be defended, it would have to be made so that no one would want to attack it in the first place. An impossible endeavor in the post-apocalyptic wastes of central Texas. It was only after a blessing in disguise fell into the warden's lap that things finally began to turn around. After that it only took some lessons in marketing.

    And you know how Wastelanders can be such saps...



    The warden slowly made his way onto the elevated platform that overlooked the stadium and light bore down onto his face. At one time, the walkway was designed for an announcer to call out to their audience and announce the jest of one’s performance. Staying true to the business applications of the old world, the warden continued its use. As he stepped to the edge of the platform the crowd erupted into a wave of overjoyed cheers. Every seat in the rafters was packed and several more were forced to stand along the stairwells. This would be a profitable evening indeed. A crooked grin crossed his mouth as one of the raiders in his chapter handed him the jury rigged remnants of a prewar megaphone. The handle of the device was duct taped into place and its power supply was converted from electron charge packs. It wasn't pretty, but it did the job.

    "Good evening San Antonio!" The warden's voice echoed along the rafters and was answered back by a wave of cheers. "Welcome to Sea World! We have a wonderful show planned for you tonight."

    As the warden riled up the crowed into a maddened frenzy, the silhouettes of no less than twenty bodies were corralled into the pit of the arena. Unlike the men and women tending to the life source of boxed vegetation, these prisoners were unshackled. Another difference from the bound farmers was the condition of this livestock. From the stands you could see the lot was all men, fit and healthy. These were clearly not slaves of service. As the moved, two slavers with Chinese assault rifles marched them into the center of the pit before falling back to the crew entrance of the arena floor. As the slavers made their exit, a manufactured wall of spikes cut from rebar sealed off the area. Despite being bound in muscle and clearly hardened from the wasteland, it didn't take an expert to understand that these men were scared.

    "Tonight's show will be brought to you by Rotgut!" the warden continued from his throne atop the rafters. "When you have to drink something and absolutely don't care what it is, Try Rotgut! Bringing your attention to the center of the stage, are warriors of The Corpse!" The name of the province cued a barrage of cheers from the crowd, "Battle hardened by that radioactive strip of hell they stand here tonight to face off for your amusement against the champion you know and love. Let’s give it up for our challengers!"

    Another cheer echoed through the stadium as the warden continued.

    "And now the moment you've all been waiting for..." A slow pause was added for effect as the crowd went silent. "In the Red corner of the arena painted by the blood of her foes. Weighing in at five thousand, three hundred and fifteen pounds. You know her, you love her! Let’s give it up for.... SHAMU!"

    Like a cue, the champions name erupted the crowd into a near riot. At the far end of the stadium, bathed in an off color tone of red sat a huge gate cast from steel I beams. A single guard stood above it separated off from the crowd with four diesel generators. One by one he made his way along them and cranked them into operation, releasing an echoing hum of sound from the blood drenched section of the arena. As the units chimed to life, the massive bulk of the gate slowly lifted itself above the arena floor. As the gate shifted, a blackened passage could be seen from the stands that echoed the booming growls of an angry God. As the shadows of the passage gave way to figure, the warriors of the corpse found themselves pale in the face of hopelessness.










    [​IMG]

    The warden smiled from the stands as he watched the carnage take place below him. Shamu was his blessing.

    What began as a strand of the worst luck occurred following the hell of a Texas dust storm. Winds that could rip a man from his feet tore through the compound as the slavers within it took what little solace they could from the park's few concrete structures. Entire sections of wall were flattened and lethal debris was swept across the grounds with violent breath. As if the night couldn't get any worse, a hulking silhouette moved through the storm as if she owned it. Finding the tanks of livestock battered by winds, the creature gorged itself on the flesh of the imprisoned. Perhaps it was luck, if not for them the beast might have been more apt to come after the Warden and his Men. Whatever the reason, as the chapter weathered the storm, they arose the morning after to the battered wreckage of their camp. At its center, lay the unconscious heap of a behemoth wrapped in electrified fencing.

    At some point through the night and possibly made blind from the chaos of the storm, the beast managed to come into contact with a stretch of electric fencing. Rather than keep its distance from the device, pain angered the giant of a creature. When the current of the fence refused to let up, the beast attacked her wire opponent and found herself tangled in its embrace. Both generators had been blown from the surge and were left as little more than smoldering ruin. An irony of which was not lost on the Warden. Somehow, his chapter had stared death in the face and managed to survive. Some of the members called it an omen.

    The Warden called it his Pet.








     
  2. A young woman in a dilapidated suit lay in the corner of the tank, panting in relief, and in horror. She could hear blood and limbs being beaten into a fine red mist all the way from her tank, and a number of her fellow captors were taken, just as she was about to be taken advantage of. The shoulder of her suit had been torn open, and she'd have to fix hat. A few others were left with her, and she was about ready to ask anyone for a favor.

    "Anyone got a needle and thread?" A captive got up from his seat on the floor and handed a spindle and broken tattoo needle to her. She smiled and nodded in thanks and got to work on her coat. It would have to be a quick fix, considering she would claim to be a bit shy, and she wasn't wearing anything underneath. Considering what was happening the last few days, her luck was returning to her. "You boys gambling? Might I join? I'll take off my rig." She looked up at the man with a cute grin and reached up her skirt to remove her card keeper. "I got my own deck of cards. Care for a game of Blackjack? Hold 'Em?" "Euchre. We're playing Euchre." "Ooh, but you're missing someone. How're you playing Euchre?" "We are now." It took her a moment, but she got it. "Alright, sound's fun."

    The woman took her seat among the three men, laying her legs in front of her at an angle, in a feminine position. Playing on the side of the threaded gentleman, the woman took it upon herself to deal the first hand. "1, 2... 1, 2, 3... 3, 4, 5... 4, 5..." Each had five cards. They picked up their hands and saw their cards. The kind man smirked and nodded at her, while the others kept poker faces - hiding subconscious signs of consternation. "Call it, friend," she said to the gruff looking man on her left. "My name's Vernon," he responded, playing his first card to call. 9 of clubs. High number, but not high card. The threaded gentleman laid down a 7, and gave his name. "Bello." "Such a nice name," she responded. The third man laid a queen of clubs, and the woman smirked as he gave his name. "Keith." "I'm Bernadet. You can call me Burns," she said, as she laid a Jack of Spades on the deck, taking the cards for her team.

    A few hands later. Bernadet's team had 10 rounds out of 12, and she always called Hearts when she called trump. "Good game, gentlemen. No animosity, correct?" She looked to her opponents who groaned, got up, and went to commingle with other inmates. "Nice hands. You're a gambler, aren't you?" Burns chuckled, holding her hand over her mouth. "You didn't gather that after I showed you my rig?" Bello nodded and gazed at her. "Where are you from, Burns?" She looked up and grinned, remembering her patricide. "Oh, y'know, someplace in the Northwest. I'm a wanderer, I'm everywhere at once, y'know. I'm always up for a game, and always ready for some caps." He made a sturgeon face and looked away for a moment. "I'm from a little town not but east o' here. Place called Lebra Center, you may have heard of it. We're known as a town of gamblers and warriors. A cheater like you wouldn't be too welcome. I was a warrior, but I like a friendly card game to pass the time. Needless to say, I wasn't too strong. I got captured and sent here." Lebra Center. Sounds like a place she'd like to visit sometime. Probably pretty small, though. This man probably won't be going home in the future anyway. Poor guy. Not that she really cared.

    "We're all bozos here, why don't I tell you how I got here? Well, I was playing a game of Caravan with a few of the chapter's raiders. It's hard to cheat at Caravan, so I wasn't, but I won a few rounds too many..." She shrugged and began to stand, brushing off her legs and stretching her arms. "I enjoyed the game, Bello. We should play another game later, if you haven't been pitted against Shamu by then."
     
  3. A dirty and scarred man stood alone, leaning against the side of the tank. He wore a torn sleeveless shirt as well as pants that reflected the upper part of his body, just as torn and dirty.

    The man stared at the concrete floor, this tank reminded him of his tribe, the stink of blood, the stink of drugs, the stink of booze. He sighed as this is exactly what he was running from. He knew his past life would catch up with him someday, but not so quickly. He folded his arms and thought to himself, "I won't be part of their damn game. I won't die for their damn pleasure. If I am to die, I will take as many of these bastards with me as I can". A smile crossed his lips at the thought.

    He looked up at the mid-day sun and thought. "Better add another mark." He pricked his finger with a needle and slid it on the wall, adding another talley mark with his blood. "Five days in this hell..". He went back to leaning against the wall and watched the young girl play cards. "Huh, she looks innocent enough. Probably would slit your throat the first chance she got though." He thought to himself and laughed.
     
  4. [size=+1]Cabel can hear the sound of the latest offerings being given the Shamu treatment even above the din of the holding tanks.

    The new arrivals listen on in horror at the crunches and screams, and he once again cannot help but not the twisted genius of this delightful little operation; no crucifixions, no having to staff the place with dozens of guards. Just grab an unlucky handful, chuck them in a stadium with Shamu, and let the power of implication and suggestion take hold. The message is clear.

    Fuck with us, prisoners, and we'll send you in next.

    He's slumped against one of the walls of the tank, watching the sun begin it's descent down below the horizon. Not that he can see the horizon, of course, but he's sure it'll look charming setting down past the walkway with the angry-looking armed guards. Poetic, even; maybe he'll write a sonnet about it, or something equally inane.

    Despite the tank being pretty packed, there's a fair amount of distance between Cabel and the rest of the prisoners. He's long since given up explaining to people that being a ghoul isn't contagious; the wasteland isn't known for breeding smart people, after all, and most of these chucklefucks have about a half dozen brain cells to share amongst them. All of which are currently being occupied by shitting their pants about Shamu. Or getting their asses handed to them at cards by the girl in the suit.

    One of the prisoners glances in his direction briefly. Something he needs to nip in the bud quickly; a ghoul stuck in a tank full of desperate humans is never a good thing, after all, so he needs them to be afraid of him. Snapping his head up, lifting up his hat and staring the man full in the face, he snaps,
    “The fuck are you staring at?” His voice is deep and crackling, like someone's sharpening a rock off his vocal cords. It has the desired effect, as the human's head snaps back down again.

    Nearby, another prisoner moves to the wall and pricks his finger before marking it, likely counting the days he's been in here. This provokes a rasping, humourless chuckle from Cabel.

    “Save your blood, Smoothskin. You're gonna be needing it soon enough.”[/size]
     
  5. "That so?" He looked at the ghoul and walked over. "And why, pray tell, is that?" He asked curiously, not trying to be intimidating, doubtful that anything could scare this hellish looking ghoul anyways, but not sounding like one of the other cowardly prisoners in the tank. Had the circumstances been different he might've bought this ghoul a drink out of respect, he seemed like he had an interesting story.
     
  6. Burns scanned the tank for a group to gamble with. She was thinking craps. Street craps are best played on a corner, so she looked down the ways for any congregations in the corners. A ghoul and some grimy, tall dude were speaking in a corner. It was one of those good-natured hostile conversations that angry guys have. But maybe what they needed was a game to loosen up. And what do you know! A pair of ebony dice right on the ground in front of her! What luck. So she made her way to the boys for a friendly game.

    "Hello, boys. You mind I play a game with you? I got a pair of dice, how's shootin' craps sound to ya?" She gave the ghoul as friendly a smile as the human, as even if she was a deceptive wench, she didn't discriminate. If a ghoul could be civil, she could talk to them. If a Mutie would be willing to talk things out, she would. In fact, she was probably the least friendly to humans, when she thought about it. Oh, well. "I just found 'em,and they feel standard weight. So, whatcha say, boys?"
     
  7. [size=+1]And suddenly there is no less than two of them taking up the space he's worked to put between him and everybody else; Cabel let's out an audible sigh as the suited girl comes sauntering over after the one smearing his blood on the wall. Should have kept my mouth shut, he observes bitterly.
    “Jesus fuck, do I really look that friendly and inviting to you motherfuckers? Or are you so desperate for conversation that you're willing to overlook the serious skin condition I'm in possession of?”

    This needs dealt with quickly, or else the other prisoners are going to think he's not quite as scary as his appearance suggests. And then more of them might start opening their mouths. “Right, let's get this over with.” He rounds on the muscled and tattooed man first. “You're gonna need your blood, shit-for-brains, because these fuckers who're offering us compulsory accommodation are either gonna chuck you in there with Shamu, sell you on for whatever purpose or shoot you because that sort of thing tickles their Jet-addled brains. Which means you'll need every last worthless drop. But it's your body, do what you like.

    “Now then,”
    he swings to face the girl proposing they play craps, “No I don't wanna roll dice with a New Vegas reject who's entire goddamn demeanour screams 'I will fleece you for every cap you are worth'. Those dice are probably more loaded than the guns those guards are carrying.” To round off his rant, he glares at the pair of them equally. “I am not a friendly, misunderstood, 'just wants to be the Smoothskins' friend' ghoul. I am a 'piss off and leave me alone' ghoul.”

    A sardonic smile splits his mutated face, crinkling his skin even further and not exactly adding to his good looks.
    “Now off you fuck, children, before I breathe on you.”[/size]
     
  8. The man looked at the girl and blinked. "What in the hell is shooting craps?" He asked, never having gambled in his life. He knew mostly how to fight and basic first aid. He'd never played card games before, the only games he played with his old tribe was Russian Roulette where you'd pass a .357 magnum around with a bullet in the cylinder and see who was lucky, and mumblety-peg where two opponents stood opposite one another with their feet shoulder-width apart, the first player would take a knife and try to "stick" it in the ground as near to his own foot as possible. The second player then repeats the process. Whichever player "sticks" the knife closest to his own foot wins the game.
     
  9. Bernadet let out a laugh as the ghoul talked about her like they had been best friends at one point. That was a likable trait. "Shit, I like you, you're nice and tough, I can appreciate that, 'specially in a ghoul. And, yeah, you got me pegged for a gambler, but I swear to God these dice ain't loaded. You can feel their weight yourself. Hell, try to crack 'em open, I just happened by 'em." She laid the dice on the ground and sat down on the floor to get comfortable. "Name's Bernadet, ghoul. I'm assuming you got a name, too? You look smart. Old, too, even for a ghoul. I'd say you been around since before the sky fell, eh?"

    Indeed, the sweet schtick as up, but she thought she might like this ghoul. Somebody she wouldn't want to betray, for more than one reason, and most of them involved blood. "I bet you got caught off guard comin' here, you're a bit much of a hardass to just give up or get fucked up."

    She looked to her mystified brother in chains and wore a neutral smirk. "Craps is a dice game. Less deadly, unless you're playing for keeps and you happen to be unlucky, in which case the man at the table's liable to brandish a shotty and blow a whole through your wrist if you don't pay your debt. C'mon, I'll teach you."
     
  10. "Um.. No thanks, I'm not much of a gambling type." He laughed then looked at the ghoul and smiled. "Hard ass huh? I wish more people were like that." He looked at his finger and wiped some blood on the scythes of his grim reaper tattoo.
     
  11. Screams and the screech of chrunching metal reverberated off of the high walls of the crowded tank. Bubba approached a frightened group of fresh captives that huddled together near the far wall. He walked up quietly but blurted out loudly in an attempt to scare them, "Ya'll better hold on to yer hats, cause its gonna be one hell of a shitstorm as soon as ole Shamu gets her hefty ass over here to this tank." The frightened wastelanders looked around frantically and cowered in fear. "And even if she doesn't make it this far ya'll will probably get thrown in there with her if your don't get sold to cannibals, strangled by a Jet crazed psycho, or hell, shot up for some good old fashioned target practice." One of the female captives screamed and fainted, collapsing into an awkward pile on the floor. Bubba burst out laughing. "Hahaha sounds fun dunnit?!" Bubba walked away from the quivering group to find someone else to converse with.

    In the corner, he spied an odd group made up of a burly tattooed man, a red headed young woman and a macabre looking ghoul. Bubba approached them. "Ohh are ya'll playin' a game? I like games. Any of you ever played chicken with a chargin' Bighorner?" he chimed in. "I had brain bits in my grill for three days, haha." He turned to the ghoul sitting against the wall. "Woah. Hey there Meltman. You look like you could use some moisturizer. I've seen mole rats prettier than you." he laughed lightheartedly. "The name's Bubba," he said before taking a seat between the girl and the ghoul.
     
  12. Fae sat in the corner of the cage as much as she could trying to shrink into the concrete. Her black hair was overly dirty and always sticking to her face now because of the light sweat she seems plagued with. She's been in the camp for three days already and he conscience echos the screams of those against Shamu in her sleep. It's been a very long three days... Sighing Fae turned over to face the other prisoners only to catch sight of her raw wrists. They were attempting to scab over but the pus that liked to leak out of the cuts were preventing it. Nothing about her transport was clean, Fae fought every step of the way until she was thrown in and untied. The guards ended up ripping the ropes from her wrists which caused even more damage to the already bloodied wrists. Maybe someone would notice her predicament and give her a stimpak or even a med-x, but that was just hopeful thinking.

    Letting out a small whimper she let her brown eyes wander to the face of the ghoul and the rest of the humans in the room. She never really taken a good look at anyone only moved to grab at the little scraps she could grab from the entrance. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't have left. She shouldn't have... Fae forced down a coughing fit badly, knowing it would only cause more pain to her already feverish body. Someone should just kill her now so she didn't have to do this anymore. Pushing her self up she grabbed the hem of her dirty tattered shirt and ripped just enough off for bandages for her wrists and began to wound them around her arms slowly. It was only a little better.
     
  13. [size=+1]Not only has Cabel's little diatribe not worked, it's drawn yet another of these insufferable prisoners over to him; some hulking and scarred motherfucker with arms like tree trunks, and who just can't seem to help but pass comment on his appearance. Glaring round at the three humans, he rounds of this new arrival.
    “Well shit, are you sure?” His voice drips with sarcasm as he runs his hands over his face, suddenly turning into a pantomime performance of shock. “Good lord, when did this happen? Now I'll never be able to win Sue-Ann's hand in marriage!” Then he's snapped back to glaring at this new arrival. “And seriously, go fuck yourself. What's with you Smoothskin motherfuckers and feeling the need to point out I rank only slightly higher than centaurs on the wasteland beauty ladder? Do you see me wandering up to you and starting my conversations with 'well gee shucks, mister, you sure look like you've got the brain capacity of a particularly dumb super mutant who fell head-first from the fucktard tree'?”

    Grumbling and muttering under his breath, Cabel wanders off away from the trio, surrendering his hard-won space to them. If he has to talk to them for much longer, he's liable to try strangling one of them. Which the guards would probably not appreciate, and he doesn't much fancy being the next Shamu bait.

    Drifting off towards the corner, he finds himself staring down at another of the prisoners, this one seemingly doing her best to turn herself into some sort of hybrid mutant between wall and human. With limited success, he notes. She's busy wrapping makeshift bandages from her clothing around her wrists. Sighing, Cabel kneels down next to her and snatches up one of her arms, not roughly but in a manner that brooks little argument; it's a technique he's learned over the years when dealing with wastelander types. “Hold still,” he mutters, unwinding the bandages carefully, “Lemme have a look. These won't work as bandages, either way; you need something cleaner than these rags.”

    The wounds themselves could have been dealt with easily a few days ago, but in her efforts to merge flesh with wall she's clearly forgotten to tend to them; the cuts are red and inflamed, discharge pushing itself out of them. Cabel tuts and shakes his head. “You didn't think to ask for help, or something?” He asks, not unkindly. These Smoothskins might annoy the shit out of him, but that doesn't mean he wants to see them dead.

    Unless they really fucking annoy him. Of course.

    Or keep mentioning his looks.

    He twists his head round to the three playing dice. “You, Vegas Reject,” he snaps at the woman in the suit, “Get the fuck over here. You might just be able to make yourself semi-useful.” Turning back to the injured one, he mutters, “Stay here and keep pressure on those wounds, try and get as much of the discharge out as possible. I'll see if I can find something to clean the cuts with and dress them. Name's Cabel, by the way.” He pulls himself to his feet. “Try not to die.”

    Bedside manner has never been his speciality.

    Moving back over to the three he'd just left, Cabel shoots a look at Vegas Reject. “Right, you clearly fancy yourself the smooth-talking type. Try getting the attention of one of the guards, let them know that one of their prisoners is in need of some medical attention or else they're gonna be burying her rather than selling her. I just need some basic supplies is all; I'll have her back on her feet.”[/size]
     
  14. "And I thought you were a hard ass." The tattoo'd man remarked not trying to insult the ghoul. "Hey, if you're getting medical shit, can you get me a band-aid?" He held up his pricked finger jokingly.
     
  15. Fae was halfway done wrapping the makeshift bandage on the first when the ghoul came over. He seemed to ponder her for a moment before grabbing her hand roughly causing a gasp to escape from her wrist. "Careful" she squeaked out as she squirmed a bit.


    The ghoul asked a question and she answered with a slight shrug. She honestly didn't know why she didn't ask for help considering that only made her worse for wear. Fae now barely heard the ghoul order another person to talk to the guards before he turned back to her. "I'm Fae," she introduced herself before doing what she was told "that wasn't exactly in my agenda in the first place" Fae sighed. She bit her lip as she pushed just below the wound to excrete the discharge from it as she waited for further instruction.
     
  16. "Oh, huff, you're a really soft little hardass, aren't you?" A smile crossed her face and she shrugged. She drew a card from her sleeve and placed it in her hat, drawing her attention to the guards. "Oh, boys! How's about you come through here and lend a few ladies a hand," she shouted up tot the guards. "Otherwise your boss'll be rather cross about you and your lost profit."

    Ooh, that stung. These raider chapter's were focused on the profit of man power, whether by slavery or labor. And they got to coming down rather quickly. Hate to find out what the boss might do about whatever she's talking about. "We got injured in here. It's infected and everything. She gets gangrene or some other sort of rot and her hands fall off, she ain't gonna be much for a fight nor a sale. It would be in your best interest to give her some medical attention." She wore a snarky grin, knowing she had the best talking point between them all. "Well, shit, we can't put her to work ourselves, we'll have to sell her. Nobody's gonna buy a stumpy, though." "Yeah, so you better get her a doc."
     


  17. "Shut your whore mouth." replied the voice of one of the one of the guards along the passage way, pulling back the charging handle on his rifle for added effect. "Else you'll have a lot more than scrapes to worry about."


    The guards didn't budge to the pressure seemed only annoyed from having to talk to the livestock in the first place. Truth be told the staff well knew they were over populated as it was. Loosing bodies brought the count back under control. They had standing orders to kill anything that gave them trouble as an example to the lot. If patterns continued the way they did, potential effigies had presented themselves. The woman might even have some use out of her before getting staked.

    The sounds of the arena continued to bleed over the horizon, resulting in the hail of screams and broken bones. The sounds of the crowd mixed with the eerie calm of the evening air, giving the entire display a surreal tone. To the others in the tank, they knew that it would not be long before they too graced the surface of the stadium walls. As the party kept up their jaded charade of playing smuggled cards and pitching one liners, many of the fellow prisoners looked upon them with glares. All it would take was one wrong gaze by a guard. Just one cue that the lot was a threat to keeping the dreary mood of the tanks and it was allover. This wasn't your average slaver pit, and it was clear that the other inmates did not approve of the light hearted disregard for how dismal the situation was.

    "Bones..." The voice of an man called out from behind the gate, too far out for the inmates to see it's source,"We got another one, picked him up on the 105. Made a bit of a fuss on the way. You got room in that hole?"

    The hulking frame of the guard who responded before shouldered his rifle and turned to the sound of the voice. Sounds of chuckling echoed from his body as he stepped out of sight. "Well look at this one..." his voice sounded out, "We a fucking old folks home now? You say this one gave you trouble?"

    "Yeah, started a shoot out and jumped Bolo when the fucker ran out of ammo. Knocked out a few of his teeth and buttered up his face pretty good."

    The guard called bones cackled out once more at that, "No shit... We'll have to give him some shit for being shown up by as tiff. Welcome home old man, Hope you enjoy your stay."

    The sound of a man spitting echoed from the edge of the tank followed by the grunt of disgust by the voice of the guards. The sounds of force on flesh rang out, possibly a knee to the inmate's face. Perhaps the butt of a rifle, it wasn't clear. After the tangle subsided Bones' silhouette shuffled back into sight through the boards of the makeshift wall, dragging a grey haired man by his beard. In a practiced motion the gate was opened and the battered prisoner was chucked into the tank, landing hard on his shoulder. His cheek was torn open on the left side and one of his eyes swollen shut. From how the man landed on the shoulder, it was clear that the arm had likely been dislocated before he had gotten there. Flashy Injuries that look a lot worse than they sometimes are. Bones laughed out like a hyena as he closed the gate behind the man and continued his patrol around the tank.

    The grey man spit once more a mouth full of blood onto the cement grounds of his cell and lifted himself onto his good arm. Leaning up onto his knees he tried to brace the remains of his dislocated limb beneath one of his shins and pull it into place. His bloodied face winced in response to the action. Dislocations are funny things. They're loud with they happen and louder still when they're reset. While not overly serious, they hurt something wicked. As the man pulled against his arm, no semblance of pop echoed out. It might have been the angle of the leverage, but for whatever reason the limb did not set itself.

    Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, he pulled at it again. If he was going to get out of here, he'd need full function of his body.



     
  18. "Need help with the arm old man?" The tattoo'd man asked and approached him slowly. From the looks of it, it looks like the old guy could put up a pretty good fight, which was the main thing that he looked for when it came to respecting people.
     

  19. Sue cracked open an eye and had to turn to get a get a good look at the person who spoke to him. The tattooed prisoner approached to same side that the grey man sported his swollen eye. Whether it was done intentionally or not was a matter to be determined. Considering the location, he wasn't exactly keen on the idea of being forthcoming with trust. This was a death camp after all.

    Sue's eyes trailed over the tattooed man with some curiosity The lines on his flesh likely set there by some wastelander in the paste with a makeshift tattoo gun. The grey man had seen builds before made from broken down cassette player motors, rubber bands and guitar strings for the needle. Crude devices but they'd get the job done. Ink could be manufactured with anything from burning paper and running oil through the ash to honest to god prewar coloring. More often than not the lines of one's skin often determined gang affiliation. Having visited the Hub, McLean was familiar with a slaver band that determined membership of it's people by tattooing the symbol of their conscript along a person's forehead. Once you were in the group, there was no leaving. If the man's tattoo's were in fact gang related, he'd have to be careful. The last thing the grey man wanted was to be on the wrong side of the guards and a prison gang.

    As sue started to open his mouth, his eyes caught a very different sight along the man's arms. Perhaps he hadn't noticed from the blood in his eyes but the clear lines of holes dotted the man's arms. Needle marks left behind from injected drugs of some manner or another. The old man's good eye narrowed as less than appealing memories came to mind on the subject. This man was an addict of some nature, potentially Psycho, Med X or some other half conceived cocktail found along the wastes. "No." Sue replied as he closed his eye once more and focused on his arm. "I'm right peachy, but thanks for the concern."

    McLean ground his teeth and pulled once again on the remains of his dislocated limb. The ball joint shifted against the socket but once again didn't quite set. In the face of the pain the man's expression contorted into a wince. Truth be told the process would be relatively simple with a second pair of hands, but pride can be a funny thing.

     
  20. Those fucking bastards! How dare they slander her like that! "What the fuck did you say about me, you shit-faced pig?" she quipped back, a bit haughty in the head now as she had been perturbed.

    "If you're looking to find yourself with your throat slit, I suggest you apologize! And help this poor bitch down here with the fucked-up wrists! Shit, you're maybe some of the worst slavers I've met, just stick 'em in a fuckin' cage and don't put 'em to no use! You got eyes to see? You could build another goddamn Sea World with the men alone, and you just stick us in here like fucking animals? Goddamn centaur's asses!"

    She may have let her pride get the best of her.