[Snowpocalypse] In the Scrapers (R 1.3)

edited January 2014 in Snowpocalypse
Ross,

You scartered off alone, heading for the place you'd dug out in the scrapers, way high up. Who else is up here? What did your hidey hole look like the last time you were here?

Why doesn't everyone want to live up there?

Comments

  • It's fucking cold up here, and the trek up 10 floors was not a smart idea. Can you imagine making this trek every day? Especially lugging food and supplies up? My hands are feel way too cold considering how bundled up I am, and I think my ears just popped. Just twenty more steps...

    I really hope Poptart is up here today... She's something of a loner, and helped me get my head on straight after Silica and I had our huge fight. I push open the big door marked 10, and shamble my way down the hall to door 109 — a "bachelor" pad, as if women can't fucking live in it. Poptart and me have stripped out and burned most of the necessities for warmth given some days. We still have a pile of kindling over by the windows, and I've got a box-spring/mattress set up in the corner facing the door.

    The place is pretty much untouched — most people are afraid to come up anywhere near these places — but I've still got my sawed-off out and ready when I crack open the door... Force of habit.
  • edited January 2014
    Ross,

    When you hit the eighth floor, you can already smell the burning wood with bits of plastic. It gets stronger as you walk along the rickety hall to your bachelor pad.

    You crack open the door and see the fire by the window. New pieces of furniture has been moved in and broken down. No hatchet visible. Poptart is either gone or hiding.

    Once you enter, she climbs out of a couch she'd hollowed out, hatchet in hand.

    Here's Poptart:
    image

    "You're back," Poptart states without a smile or a scowl. She's pretty stoic, as you know. Does she know you as Ross, Rossi, both?
  • Both... Or neither, depending on your perspective. She gave me the nickname Rossignol, because of the skis I had when I climbed up here — she knows Rossignol isn't my real name, but I never corrected her either. She was the one who suggested I mask up, actually... Gave me the goggles to do it with...

    I lower my gun and close the door behind me, slipping the deadbolt in place. I look around to make sure she's alone before unmasking — again, habit. "Trouble with some guys on 47th," I answer, pointing to my bloodied jacket, "I don't suppose you've got some cloth I can rip up, do you?"
  • edited January 2014
    Rossi,

    Poptart's alone.

    Poptart heads into the bathroom, to the medicine cabinet where she keeps supplies because that is where you keep such things. Poptart comes back with strips of nice tablecloth and some rubbing alcohol that is probably nothing more than a placebo now, hands them to you.

    "Why were you on 47th? Got any food?" Poptart asks both with equal interest.
  • It's better than nothing... It's not like I can just waltz into a place, say I got shot up, and not have rumors spreading around as to why... That, and the whole point of going to ground is so that nobody knows where "Ross" is. I'll just have to tough this out, I guess. Wouldn't be the first time, and it probably won't be the last. At least I have a bit of jingle if Poptart needs to buy some penicillin or something.

    I slip my hiking pack off my good shoulder and nod as I start taking my goggles off. "back pouch. Cured meats and fresh water... You may need to melt it." I hope she's eating well... I would never imply she isn't. She's a tough woman, but she's not exactly young, you know?

    As for being on 47th, "I heard a rumor one of the guys there might have heard about something I did, then backed a chauvinist pig when he got a stiffy for putting a bullet in the asshole's head for playing coy."

    What the hell was I thinking? Fucking Mol could have got us killed. I should have stopped him ... Shame he missed, though. Mol's usually a crack shot. I wonder why he's off his game.
  • edited January 2014
    Rossi,

    Poptart takes the pouch, puts it gingerly to the side. She doesn't immediately run off to eat, she helps you strip off any clothes you seem to want off. It is warm enough here. Considering. She'll help you get down to the bullet wound, help clean the wound. Poptart's a little hungry, but she's not going to leave you hanging. "Protecting assholes from assholes could be a full-time job. Get anything for it?"
  • I bite my lip and raise an eyebrow in contemplation, "maybe loyalty... As tedious and tenuous as that fucking is..." I chuckle, immediately cringing from the pain, then shake my head. "Nothing except lost keys, and the knowledge to stay the fuck away from Carnation and his boys."

    I show her the bullet wound in my shoulder, and the one above my left breast. Fuck... That was a lucky shot. It's gunna leave a scar.
  • edited January 2014
    Rossi,

    Poptart heads back to the medicine cabinet and brings some needle and thread. "Want me to boil some water for the thread?"

    Has Poptart sewn you up before? Is this, like, a thing you two do?
  • Yeah, she's done this before a couple of times. This is one of my hidey-holes after all. Getting those things out is going to be a bitch... Whatever. Those wounds need to close. I nod, and make my way over to the bed so she can do her work.
  • Rossi,

    "Carnation is a prick," Poptart says as she cleans the wound in your shoulder. She doesn't warn you about the alcohol, but you both know it will burn. "You want some vodka before I start sewing?"
  • "Ha!" I inhale sharply through my teeth as the pins and needles come back. Fuck... I've gotta stop laughing. I nod and reach back with my good hand when she offers vodka for the pain, "you still drinking that shit for the cold? You know it doesn't do any good — just helps you forget you're bleeding heat faster."

    I take a swig from the half-empty bottle, and grimace. FFfffffffuck — I must've lost more blood than I thought... Maybe one more swig for good measure. Yeah. "Man that fire's nice..." I pass her back the bottle, but hold onto if she goes to take it, "don't fuck up my shoulder tat."
  • Rossi,

    "Don't get bullets in it, then," Poptart quips without smiling. She fishes out the thread, which is damp and hot, and starts stitching you up. The vodka has not had enough time to help, really. She works quick and I'm guessing you don't flinch. Four stitches and your shoulder is done.

    "Alright, let's get the other one." Poptart says without any hint of compassion or timidity.
  • edited January 2014
    The vodka wasn't for the stitches — it was for the bullet hole in my fucking chest. Sewing that shut is going to fucking hurt. I don't bother watching as she sews it up, but I do roll my eyes at her quip. Yeah, I'll keep that in fucking mind next time ten guys decide they want to put a bullet a piece in me.

    I roll over and bite my lip as she starts working. I think I'm drawing blood, 'cause I taste iron... "You mind if I crash here a few days before heading out? Until things quiet down?"
  • Rossi,

    "Mi shithole es su shithole," Poptart answers. She points to the couch, "Go lay down, and hold up your tit so I can get at that." She waits for you to get comfortable. Do you let her work and move your breast out of her way, or do you grab yourself to help Poptart out? Just curious how that goes.

    "Frontside's idiots are moving around alot lately. Getting braver," Poptart says while sewing you up.
  • Why wouldn't I move it for her? It's just common courtesy to help out... These things get in the way a lot — but they're just tits. It's not like they get offended when someone touches 'em, least of all myself. I work my way over to the couch and do as I'm told.

    I clench my teeth a few times as the needle pokes through my flesh... I can't watch her work on this one for obvious reasons, so instead I watch her face. "They giving you trouble? I should send them a message..."
  • Rossi,

    "Well," Poptart says as she pulls out some tweezers, "Either they back off, or we move." She catches your eye for a moment, "First things first. I think the bullet's lodged, don't see an exit. Gotta get her out. You drunk enough?"
  • There isn't enough liquor in a drunk mother's tit to prepare me for that kind of pain — but that's what the second swig was for. "Yeah," I say with a nod, "just make sure you get all of it. I don't want a repeat of last time..." I've still got the scar from the second incision. I take a few deep breaths and stare up at the ceiling...

    I'm gunna put so much birdshot in the asshole who did this to me. That fucker Carnation is a dead man. I'm thinking about all the ways I'm going to shoot him to cope with the pain... I don't want to show weakness in front of Poptart. No flinching. No screaming. Instead I let a single tear stream down my cheek. I've gotta focus on this — remember it — so I don't let it happen again.

    Can this just be fucking over already?
  • Let's see you Act Under Fire to keep from flinching, Rossi.
  • OOC: Act Under Fire. Roll+Cool. +1XP.
    (Rolled: 2d6+1. Rolls: 3, 2. Total: 6)
  • Rossi,

    Yeah, no. It hurts pretty damn bad, Rossi. She has to dig for a bit, too much. You end up passing out from the pain.

    You know Poptart won't judge you, though.

    What do you dream about this time?
  • Fucking dreams...

    The scene was the same as back at Carnation's, but everything was fucking wrong... The cars were stacked twice as high, there were twice as many guns pointed at us, and it wasn't Carnation up there on that balcony — it was Dad... Or at least I could have sworn it was... I flipped him the bird, and watched everything devolve into the chaos — just like before.

    I watch Mol blast a hole through the wall of people, and follow him up the ramp. I feel people tugging at my jacket, my goggles, my scarves... They're trying to unmask me, when the barrel of an old double-barrel shotgun comes right up to my face. The world goes quiet as a gunshot rings out, and I spot Silica hanging from the crane — fucked up on ice. I turn to face Mol, and he sees me unmasked... I can see hurt in his eyes, like betrayal, the way he looked at Suitcase. He raises his magnum to finish off Silica with a loud *CLICK* as he pulls back the hammer... I don't do anything.

    I remember the sound of the gun going off. I can't look back.
  • --END SCENE--
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