Urban Blade: Lethal River

The boat motor made a loud, healthy thrum - a heavenly sound to the survivors. Tanya kicked them off from the shore and Victor engaged the propellor, sending them into the canal at a gutsy pace. Splashes and shouts told them there will still inmates around the plane wreck, but they were scattering their own way now, or getting rounded up by the emergency crews. Perhaps some of them would try to explain the predictment Old Merl had put them in - perhaps they would get examined by doctors, taken into surgery. Or perhaps they were doomed to an agonizing death in holding cells and other prisons.

The survivors would never know.

Ricky's radio picked up most of the mid-priority traffic. Emergency crews were using the freeway and southern feeders to access the disaster zone, and helicopters had yet to organise their sweeps. So the five inmates exploited the window of opportunity and raced west through the narrow waterways, shrouded by tall reeds and marshland. And it was not long before their boat blended with the shadows of industrial units. They were at the city edge, near dark and rundown lots.

But they were not alone. Soon they saw odd patches of light - vagrant fires fed with trash and salvaged wood. The fuel gave out after a half-mile and they were left drifting between the homeless camps either side of the river. Eyes followed them. Silhouettes scurried from the shore. Every bridge and parking lot they passed seem to have solitary, ghost-like figures watching. The wasteland was eerie, to say the least.

In time Victor brought the boat against the concrete bank, where a rusted ladder and mooring pins gave them a chance to disembark. As Tanya tied them up, she was muttering out loud.

"Forty eight hours to find some lab cure in a city? Great idea, Merl! Wanna give us some clues? No? Well fuck you too!"

Further along the bank, a large loading yard had been taken over by vagrants. Trashcan fires lit up the place, and showed various groups of brown and grey-ragged wretches. They either hadn't heard the boat or didn't care. Some were drinking, others dancing clumsily; but most sat and stared at the flames.

They had entered the first circle of Hell.
 
They had made it away from the wreckage without being caught, yet. Ricky looked around, on edge but not letting it show. That's one thing you learned in prison, how to not look scared. If you wanted to survive that is and Ricky was a survivor. He hopped out of the boat, onto the concrete bank. "From one shit-hole to another" Ricky took in a deep breath of the putrid air "We could have just stayed in prison. Smells better here though."

Nearby he heard the chick inmate complaining about good Ol' Merl. "Forty eight hours to find some lab cure in a city? Great idea, Merl! Wanna give us some clues? No? Well fuck you too!" Right yeah, that. "You know what pisses me off? If the dude had all the resources to bring down our plane and got us all, everyone on the plane, poisoned then why couldn't he find the cure his damn self?" He kicked some gravel to express his rage.

Through Ricky's rage inflicted gravel scattering he had a thought. "Hey. If all we have is three days then maybe this cure won't be impossible to find" this thought gave him evident hope. "I guess maybe what we should do is find out exactly what it is, or what it's for" he rubbed at the back of his neck "Then look for wherever they have it I guess." The last parts of what he said were mumbled, as if thinking out loud to himself. Temporarily, Ricky had forgotten his wariness of the other inmates in his sudden inspiration to find this cure.
 

"555-692-1423," MILES BLURTED. "That's the phone number. For Old Merl." He combed through his memory, the message he kept repeating to himself long after Merl had finished speaking, so that he wouldn't forget. "And it's Lab Cure Nine that he wants us to get." He stared at the fires somewhat dejectedly, at the dark gray faces around them. He turned to his companions and asked somewhat skeptically, "Any of you suppose some of these residentially challenged people know anything?" He didn't have a better idea for the next step, besides being completely lost. Maybe if some of the streetlamps were working he'd be able to find a street name. Something. For a three-day quest to save their lives, these were discouragingly humble beginnings…
 
The blurter was had good idea. If anyone has at least a bit of info, it would be one of the locals. While a few of the others raged, Marcus took it upon himself to go and try to find a clue as to what to do. He hoped for at least a enough of a direction that they weren't sitting there with their heads up their own asses. Slipping out of the top half of his jumpsuit, he tucked it under his new utility belt so maybe he looked more like a peaceful construction worker as opposed to a hardened criminal. Truthfully, he sort of was closer to the first over the ladder. Walking with an almost intentional ignorance, he spotted a local and attempted a conversation.

"Excuse me, I was wondering if there was something you could help me with..." he said softly.

[Gather Information Check: total of 17]
 
As the survivors disembarked, Marcus proved himself a shrewd negotiator. With a joke here and there, an offer of cigarettes he had found in the boat, and a precise interplay of body language and tone, he soon dispelled the initial distrust of the vagrants. The circle was opened and the inmates were given space to dry themselves by the trashcan fires. One of the drunker hobos even passed a bottle of liquor. The old factory yard seemed to be a regular haunt for the homeless, and in no time at all the inmates were taken for granted. They were just other lost souls amid the rabble who stared at fires, drank or wrapped themselves in plastic sheeting and cardboard. No one cared for anyone else's business here.

The mention of Lab Cure IX brought blank stares from the sober men Marcus questioned. But an older vagrant, massively built and grey-bearded, mentioned that all kindsa medicine was stockpiled at Ceval Inc. - a large pharmaceutical warehouse at the far edge of this estate. He said there was a man there called Mixer Mike, who could get his hands on all kinds of prescription drugs. He sometimes sold them out the back of the warehouse, writing off the losses as breakages with the wholesalers. To get in you either had to jump the fence or go to the gate guard where the haulage trucks were admitted. The vagrant himself had only done it a couple of times. Mixer Mike's warehouse crew, though grateful for the money, weren't too keen on hobos stinking up their territory and had beat him with pallet planks the last time he visited.

"Not the friendliest of fucks," the man muttered.

"Makes sense," Tanya said, when Marcus reported back to the other survivors. "Someone inside the pharmaceutical circle's gotta know something about this cure."

It was almost midnight. The stars were out.
 
[size=+1]The Kalashnikov rests on Victor's lap as he checks the weapon over, cleaning it as best he can in the light of one of the trashcan fires. The last thing he wants is for the weapon to jam again in the middle of a shootout, and making sure it's in working condition is likely the best way to do so.

It's in fine condition, and an AK is designed to be reliable to a fault; Victor has seen this weapon all across the globe, in the hands of everyone from farmers to cartel enforcers to insurgents. It kicks like a mule and it's not the most accurate, but when it comes to dependability it has few rivals.

One of his fellow escapees, Marcus, is busy making friends with the vagrants who inhabit this place. Clearly he's a sociable guy, and Victor is more than happy to let him handle such matters; he's not much of a people person, from his intimidating stature and unfriendly demeanour.

The attempt to gather information pays off; Marcus returns with news of a pharmaceutical warehouse nearby.
"Sounds like this Mixer Mike be the man we want a word with," Victor grunts, getting to his feet and slinging the AK47 over his shoulder, "What say we go have a chat with him, real polite like?"

The grin on his face suggests that Victor has a very different interpretation of 'real polite' than most people.[/size]
 

PHARMACEUTICAL CHEMISTRY. AT last something that Miles had a chance in. Something he'd actually gotten good grades for in school, unlike … oh, say, swimming with handcuffs on and finding his way to a meth lab through a slum. The first thought reminded him that while the chain linking them was broken, his cuffs were still securely clasped around his wrists, and he regarded the chafed skin sourly. Sometime during the daylight he would have to try and pick the locks open. All at once his eyes strayed from the flickering fires to the barren, vast night sky, and realized that light he hoped for might be his last if this mission was unsuccessful. How could he be thinking of chafing when his brain was scheduled to implode in forty-eight hours?

The muscular, bald man near him responded to Marcus's discovery with a dangerously sarcastic joke before hoisting a gun over his shoulder that looked like the kind of thing you'd use to immobilize an elephant. He smirked at the thought of Victor demanding a mystery cure from illicit drug-dealers at gunpoint, then froze when he realized that might be his companion's intention. Quickly he took out his map, holding it up to the flickering firelight. "Well, it looks like Ceval Incorporated is right … here." He pointed and narrowed his eyes at the area around it. "Somewhere near a large Winston Street," he added, then turned to face the others. "Anyone see any street names around this area?" Several small rivers cut across the map near Ceval Inc.; perhaps they wouldn't have to abandon the boat.
 
Oh goody were chugging right along and making progress. They knew the building where the cure was most likely to be and had a map that showed them where it was. The problem was going to be getting inside, and not being caught on the way. Which would mean the prison clothes would have to go. Looking down at the map where Miles was pointing he noticed the guy still had his cuffs on. "Here you go" he said, dropping the little ring of keys he had taken from one of the guard corpses.

The inmate with the AK, Victor, probably didn't have the kind of polite in mind that peacefully got things done. "Maybe we should be polite. Or, at least, not cause a commotion. Getting a change of clothes might help." But where would they get different clothes? Ricky looked around to see some vagrants and their stinky looking clothing. He didn't really want to have to wear those clothes...
 
"Offer one hand, and arm the other."

Marcus really wasn't going to just walk in somewhere not vigilant. At least, not with the current circumstances. He felt it would be too rash in Victor's route and too naive if they had Ricky's outlook. A mixture might suit well. They both were right about one thing. Visitation was in order and so were a change of clothes.

"I don't see a sign. We should move along, until there is anything to point us there. It's on the far edge. See if you can't find something to get us around this place."

He looked around, trying to get a feel for the place.
 

"Now's not the time to be shy, boys."

Any who heard this turned to see Tanya stripped to bra and panties, the underwear sweat-stained like her muscles. The girl had wasted no flesh on the inside. Her physique was athletic, the hint of abs, thighs robust, biceps defined.

Next to Victor she was perhaps the best in shape here, and not ashamed of it.

Her prison overalls were pooled around her feet, and as she kicked them off they were taken by the hobo who was removing his own fleabitten longcoat. It swamped her as she put it on, but with her river-soaked hair the dishevelled look was complete.

The other vagrants were, understandably, staring. But the pistol kept in Tanya's hand throughout the show dissuaded any of them from amorous approaches.

As she shouldered her backpack she flashed a smile to the other survivors. "Mine smells of mildew!"




* * * * * *​



It was a five minute jog to the edge of the estate, along
<img src="http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/6908865724_c1ede91844_b-soundslogical-by-nc-nd-20-800x532.jpg" border="1" width="500" align="right">service roads and over ditches. This time of night there was nothing but passing tanker trucks and the odd shadow of other hobos. No one bothered them. And tall streetlamps gave enough to light to navigate between the compounds.

Soon the five inmates were standing at the junction of the service road that led to the Ceval warehouse.

The compound was ringed by a high fence and there was a gate where two men lounged in hooded coats. They didn't look like the typical night watchmen. As a truck rolled past it stopped only briefly and the guards exchanged words with the driver before directing it onwards.

Beyond them they could see the lot, where large white trailers were unloaded and their cargo wheeled into the warehouse.

They had reached the Mixer's realm.
 
Awesome, they were going to wear some hobo clothes. Ricky took the cue from Tanya stripping down and donning her hobo uniform, also whistling as she changed. With some reluctance Ricky suited up in the homeless attire. He didn't like it, but it was necessary. "Oh check that out mine has a tooth in it!" Suppressing a shudder Ricky flicked the tooth away, a hobo shuffled over and picked it up as if he had found something he'd been missing. Ricky jogged off with the rest of the inmates after stuffing his things into his new pockets.

It didn't take long to get to the place, and like they were told there was some guards and a fence. Looking beyond the fence at the structures beyond, Ricky wondered if their task would be completed so soon, and hoped it would be.

There were a couple guards at the entrance to the place, where trucks and cars would pass through. Maybe he could work some magic on these dudes to let them in. Ricky watched the dudes for a minute though, remembering what the old vagrant said, he didn't want to approach these guys without having a sense of what kind of mood they were in.

[Sense Motive Check: Natural 1]
 
He might not verbally admit it, but Tanya was rather alluring. She took care of herself and it showed. Thankfully, Victor's sweaty, hairy pecs were close enough to throw off any unpure thoughts. She would probably only give a single warning for a dirty stare before firing. It really wasn't worth finding out either.

The removed jumpsuit revealed a bore-fest of an off-white shirt and blue checkered boxers. In exchange, he sweet talked his way into a dirty, beige sport jacket and tattered neck tie. Black pants and a little white fedora were thrown in just to complete the "gangster who walked through a dusty construction site" look. He appreciated the generosity and gave the appropriate thanks.

"I look like I reek of horse piss." he whispered light heartily.

Their residential track had gone with desirable ease and comfort. Now, they stood just outside the probable place of Mixer. The guards seemed a bit out of place. Something didn't sit right. Marcus motioned for the group to stay. Naively believing that nothing bad would happen, he just went over to talk. His shadow bent back and forth with the lights. The crunching and scratch of rock sounded as Marcus intentionally made enough sound for them to see him. Getting about 10 yards away, he stopped.

"Hey fellas, you mind helping me out?"

[Diplomacy Check: Rolled 4, total of 8.]
 
The guards gave only minimal stares to Marcus. It was clearly no surprise for a ragged loner to be walking up to them at this time of night. One of the hoodied characters remained leaning on the fence, while the other blew smoke from his cigarette.

"Fuck off. We're busy."

With their baggy clothes, it was impossible to see if these men were carrying. But they certainly seemed in shape.
 

As Marcus made an effort to talk to the disinterested guards, the rest of the inmates hung back in a ditch at the intersection. There were enough bushes here to keep them covered whenever one of the trucks rolled past.

Tanya was squatting with her hobo coat pooled around her, blowing on her hands to keep them warm. The bounce of her legs made clear her impatience.

She glanced across at Victor, "I don't think they're ones for sweet talk." Her eyes dropped momentarily to his kalashnikov, then back to the compound gate.

"My guess is, guys like these, they don't wanna waste their time 'less there's profit in it. Too many hobos jerking 'em around. We gotta prove we've got the cash, or that we're worth talking to." [Streetwise Check: 21].

 
[size=+1]The old greatcoat Victor had acquired from the hobos is worn and stained, but it keeps out the cold and allows him to conceal his weaponry somewhat. He's tied off the jumpsuit at his waist, letting the empty sleeves hang loose like some sort of bizarre orange belt, a stained white vest covering his chest where the greatcoat is open.

No exactly inconspicuous, but it sure as hell beats wandering around with his prison numbers on show.

The ragtag group is now confronted with the guards sitting at the edge of Mixer Mike's turf, and is in discussion as to what to do next. Victor stays to the back of the group, silently watching the proceedings. He knows all too well that he's not the man to handle these sorts of situations, so he decides to let the others figure it out.

"Y'strike me as a lady with a plan for this here situation," Victor finally adds in his deep, drawling voice as he flashes a grin at Tanya, "So I'll follow your lead. Those chucklefucks yonder reckon we ain't worth talking to? I got some Soviet firepower under my jacket that says otherwise."

Simple, that's how Victor likes it. He'll let the other handle the talking, and if the whole thing goes south he can do his thing.[/size]
 
Ricky could get nothing from the guards. He watched as Marcus plunged headlong into engaging the two dudes verbally, they seemed less than interested in what he had to say. It would have been funny if their lives weren't at stake. Actually yes it was funny, but Rick wouldn't laugh about it right now.

Tanya's voice came to his ear and what she said made sense. Taking inventory mentally, Ricky thought about all the stuff they had on them, that he knew of. It wasn't much and what they did have they needed. So they didn't have a whole lot to make them seem like more than the bums they were dressed as. Eh what the hell "Lets see if I can make us seem worthy. If this doesn't work I guess we can give sneaking in the ol' college try." Ricky climbed out of the ditch and trotted over toward the guards, giving Marcus a slap on the back.

"Me and my friends have business with Mike..."


[Diplomacy: Rolled 6, total 16]
 

MILES WATCHED WITH a sinking feeling as approach after approach failed to sway the beady-eyed guards. They were running out of ideas and Victor kept making noises about his gun. Miles had really hoped he wouldn't have to use it again today. The memories of being nearly drowned and then repeatedly shot at had put him on edge and reliving the experience would be disconcerting, to say the least. Thank goodness Ricky had removed his manacles. He watched another ploy go awry and wondered whether it would be possible to distract them somehow. They'd probably be prepared for that sort of thing, though, and there were several of them.

At last Ricky seemed to be making some headway. "If this works, depending on what kind of guy this Mike is," Miles thought aloud, "maybe we could get our hands on some supplies. I would love to get my hands on a medical kit…" He looked back at Ricky's negotiations hopefully.
 
<img src="http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/6908865724_c1ede91844_b-soundslogical-by-nc-nd-20-800x532.jpg" border="1" width="500" align="right">A flashlight clicked on, the full beam hitting Ricky in the face like a flashbang. It lingered on him for a moment, then switched to Marcus. Whatever Ricky had said was enough to get them a second consideration. And considered they were - every inch of their white-lit faces examined.

Then the flashlight moved again, streaking down the road to where the others hid. The three in the ditch thought it best not to flinch, but some kept their faces turned. At this distance they would just look like a trio of huddling hobos. But nonetheless, the flashlight hovered on them for a good minute. It was perhaps more for intimidation than scrutiny.

When finally the flashlight came back to Ricky and Marcus, the answer was brief. "Just you two. Mike don't like crowds."

And with that, the first guard turned and led the way, while the other crossed to the fencepost to keep an eye on the remaining three. His hands were still in his pockets - neither flashlight nor worse on show for now.

"Guess they're on their own." Tanya muttered.


Ricky and Marcus were led down the service track and across a wide lot where a dozen or so trucks were parked up. Work men were dragging crates, tinkering with engines, or else gathering to share cigarettes and hipflasks. They were a mixture of fat truckers and skinny teens, stubbled loners and haunted-looking rednecks. They gave only minimal glances. The sight of hobos being taken to the Mixer was clearly not uncommon.

Up ahead, the Ceval Warehouse was a bleak structure of white-painted metal, its generators and lights humming, its innards gaping yellow light from the loading bays. The guard led them through one of the larger doorways, just as a newly-loaded trucked sidled out. And once inside, they entered a world of shouting, scraping and glass-clustered shelves. The warehouse was full of all manner of pharmaceutical crates, bulk cannisters, medication packs and chemical vats. A bustling industry, it seemed.

"Yo Mike!" the guard called to a pair at the edge of the loading area - a big mouth-breather holding a roster sheet, and a smaller man with an 80s style moustache. He was dressed in denim and wore a medallion. Clearly a man stuck in the past.

Looking up from discussing the roster, the moustache man gave Ricky and Marcus the once over but made no effort to approach. "They sent the cleaner, better-looking ones now, huh? What d'ya want?"

The guard who had led them here stood off to one side, his eyes not leaving the two guests, his hands still in his hooded top.



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He didn't like this, at all. There were out numbered and most of his new companions were outside the premises. Hopefully, this was doing to end easily enough. In a rush, they both might be torn apart. No sudden or threatening moves, he thought. Stepping lightly and politely, Marcus gave smile and began to speak.

"Hello. My name is Marcus Davenport and this is my associate..."

He turns realizing that the man's name escaped him.

"...Jones. We were hoping that you could help us to get something we need. A barter perhaps?"

[Diplomacy Check: Rolled a 2. =D ]
 
Ricky gave Marcus a look that said to shut the hell up. He could tell Marcus didn't like the situation, Ricky himself would have preferred more favorable conditions but this was far from bad compared to what he'd been involved with before. This was simple.

He did have the right idea though, they were going to need to trade something since they didn't have any money. On the way in he had tried getting an idea of what kind of help Mike may have at his disposal, maybe they could offer him a service for free he would normally have to pay for.

"We need Lab Cure IX, and I hear you're the man when it comes to pharmaceuticals."

[Streetwise: 22]
 
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