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[Snowpocalypse] In the Scrapers (R 1.3)
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?
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
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.
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:
"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?
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?"
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.
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.
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 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.
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?
"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?"
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."
"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.
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?"
"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.
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..."
"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?"
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?
(Rolled: 2d6+1. Rolls: 3, 2. Total: 6)
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?
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.