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[Snowpocalypse] First Day on the New Job (M 1.8)
Molotov,
The next day you've got Endeavor and some of the Sparekeys out on 47th. Are Bonk and Never Summer with you? What time did you drag them out here?
The goal is to make sure your turf is claimed, and maybe snipe some jingle out of it, yeah? Let's see a custom move, why don't we?
When you patrol your territory on 47th, roll +Sharp. On a 10+, take both. On a 7-9, choose one.
- you keep your turf without any losses (maybe a small fight, maybe boring day of sitting around)
- you're able to find some jingle (charge a toll, hit a caravan, find some stuff lying around)
On a miss, something went awry, MC will detail.
The next day you've got Endeavor and some of the Sparekeys out on 47th. Are Bonk and Never Summer with you? What time did you drag them out here?
The goal is to make sure your turf is claimed, and maybe snipe some jingle out of it, yeah? Let's see a custom move, why don't we?
When you patrol your territory on 47th, roll +Sharp. On a 10+, take both. On a 7-9, choose one.
- you keep your turf without any losses (maybe a small fight, maybe boring day of sitting around)
- you're able to find some jingle (charge a toll, hit a caravan, find some stuff lying around)
On a miss, something went awry, MC will detail.
Comments
(Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 4, 1. Total: 7)
It's before dawn. Both sky and ice are bruised with light from setting moon, and we're all moving to keep warm. I've got Endeavor beside me, waddling like the red marshmallow he is.
We're on foot. Is no point wasting fuel, and quiet is better for this work. And da, Bonk is among the Sparekeys but I'm letting NS, my vtoroy, get his beauty sleep.
I ask Endeavor at one point, "So. You shoot, little devushka?"
OOC: Choosing option.
• you're able to find some jingle.
The crew is spread out along 47th, trying to give you a heads up on anyone coming this way. Endeavor replies confidently, "If my dumbass momma wouldn't stick me in this outfit, I'd be a fucking ninja superspy, Molotov!" It's a miracle the kid can walk, much less skulk around like he does.
As you're chatting, some time passes. The sun is coming up cold this morning. Seems like the spate of warm days may be passing. As a bitter wind comes through, your lead scout, some snot-nosed kid named Tailspin, tries to flag down a Camaro. The guy must've heard Carnation's dead, because he fucking guns it. runs right the hell over Tailspin, then loses it on the slush and ice and spins out into a brick building a half block up.
What do you do?
I start belting commands, my voice carrying down 47th, in attempt to catch Sparekey attention. They knew moment was coming sometime, but long hours spent slowly freezing is helping to dull the brain. So, I try to get their bellies burning with fire.
I give first order to one woman, who the fuck knows her name, to get Tailspin looked after. Then, I give orders to get to, and surround the car, like, other side of the street NOW and guns out, GO GO and WAIT for my signal and spread the fuck OUT, stay LOW and do NOT let jingle grow wings!
And then I'm half a block away, looking down at Endeavor. "Is time to be ninja like Never Summer," I tell him, pushing a small gun into his hand. It's black, little caliber rounds, with a safety. I mold his hands around the too-large grip, as I crouch to his level, and give him quick simple order, "You fire when I fire. If you are firing before then, is going to be very bad time."
I push down on his head, getting him closer to my level, and begin to approach the car-wreck, Last Resort pointing the way. If I am getting close enough before hearing or seeing anything, I'll make my presence known and attempt to greet then.
The Camaro is rusted pretty bad on the underside, but the windows are bolted up with metal plates. The thing is top heavy, and there are no guns mounted. As you're coming up, low, you spot the muzzle of a gun, a rifle, actually, being slipping out from the driver's side. The driver is trying to get a shot on Bonk.
What do you do?
Of course it would go like this. What else would happen, everybody smiling in sunshine? Bonk is dead unless something is being done quick, and nothing quicker than bullet. So I'm squeezing the trigger of my Last Resort, in way that says back the fuck off, spraying the side of his precious Camaro.
And in fact I am shouting afterwards, "HELLO, FUCK-FACE. I am giving you one warning, try that again and we will be coming in there and ripping you out like fucking CRAB IN SHELL. Understand, DA?" Russian accent is thick, but that is happening in moments like these. Usually, I am too busy shooting and not talking to fucking opportunistic, weak, osel grebanyy assholes. But, then again, I've never had men to look out for before. I've never had this responsibility.
You're so Going Aggro. Let's see dice.
(Rolled: 2d6+3. Rolls: 1, 1. Total: 5)
Who takes the shot from that rifle? You or Bonk?
Apparently, my Last Resort is like, reversed magnet. Is attracting, not repelling. Maybe I would laugh, but I'm too busy being shot. The bullet punches words out of my chest, "FUCK. THEM. UP." And I'm guessing my Sparekeys know the drill, or Carnation was bigger idiot than I am thinking he was.
You feel the mule kick of that rifle. The rest of your gang riddles the car with bullets, shooting it to slag. Endeavor is sort of flipping his wrist while firing and screaming the whole time like he's in a John Woo flick or something.
Whoever was in that Camaro is a bloody pulp.
You'd take 3-Harm (apply armor and whatnot), but with your armor, that's 1-Harm. I'll do the Harm roll next.
Harm Roll (1 Harm after armor)
(Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 4, 6. Total: 12)
You bring up Last Resort, because hey, you're badass, why not fire from a knee? But the stock is broken. The bullet hurt so bad, you snapped the stock, Molotov. With your bare fucking hands!
What do you do?
I'm clenching red-teeth as I hit my knee, and I click the trigger, preparing for beautiful retaliation. But...nothing. FUCK. SHIT. "SOSI EBANATAYA SUKA! KOOSHI GOVNO EE OOMREE!" I'm spitting into the icy-wind, roaring over the sound of the Sparekeys going to town.
And now I'm panting, clutching Last Resort to my chest as the gunfire dies. Nyet, clutching is the wrong word. I am cradling, hugging, examining her injuries, and all I can be thinking is man inside THAT car killed her. I tell Endeavor to get in the car, and only when I am seeing his blank stare through those scarves do I realize I'm still speaking Russian.
"Get. In. There. Find. Barter. Bring. Me. Shooter." I repeat, leaning back against a frozen, mired car that would have been cover, were it not blocking the wrong direction. I'm pressing down on my ribs, but can feel thick, warm blood dribbling between my fingers.
The gang practically tackle the car. A couple start prying open doors and breaking glass. Endeavor dives in the back window, ripping his coat accidentally-on-purpose. Bonk jumps on the hood, starts jumping up and down, firing into the windshield plates.
Things calm for a moment, and Invert rushes over to snatch the rifle and brings it to you. Endeavor calls out from the back, "I got beers! Stop shootin the beers!!!!"
Oh, this is Invert:
What do you do?
I push to my feet, painting red hand-marks up the ice-slick car. The Camaro is totally fucked, but not enough to put a smile in my heart. Not with Last Resort broken in my arms.
"Enough!" I'm calling out, but who knows how weak my voice is. I'm trying to keep it from showing, "Bonk, take beers and Endeavor, go get Tailspin, go home. Anybody else smart enough to bring their bike?"
I slide the rifle over one shoulder, ignoring this woman Invert, and reluctantly Last Resort goes over the other. With my hands, I'm trying to patch up the wound, ripping off cloth, wrapping it, sponging up blood. Whatever is seeming to work.
Sims speaks up, "I got mine, Molotov!" He's even raising his hand.
Sims (who is wearing about what you see here, he's an ice-walker):
Endeavor starts pulling out unshot beers and they put it on the four-wheeler to haul back. Invert also pries loose some batteries and a nice butterfly knife from the rifleman. Bonk pulls up the hood, yoinks the battery out of the car. All told, you get a good jingle out of the deal.
What do you do?
I've been off the ice-cubes for what, three weeks now? And have not been seeing Silicia in all that time. I'm feeling little bit of pride in self, like, I knew I was stronger than that shit, and it's fueling disgust in this man who is not.
"Slabyy," I mutter softly with a shake of my head, but motion to Sims with curling of my fingers. The blood set quickly, and now my gloves are covered in a red glove of their own. "We're taking your bike to the only good-for-anything doc I know. Poke."
And then to the rest, I say, "And we're taking the batteries. You did good, so take the beer, and anything else left in the car. If you want more, is still time in day to run more patrols." I cough onto the back of my hand, but don't look at it. I can feel the wetness against my skin.
I let Invert keep the knives, dismissing her offering and all-around ignoring her, before motioning to Sims like, why are you taking so fucking long.
Sims loads up the bike while the others start digging through the beer to take back in whatever pockets they have.
Bonk says, "Bossman, I'm coming with!" He's going to ride on the edge. Or something.
I'd roll my eyes but they're too busy struggling to stay open. Maybe, this Bonk has skull so thick my commands were lost in the bone. Is better idea than having to be dealing with insubordination right now.
Gingerly, I am sitting on the back of Sims' bike, not helping him pack, and patient would be a stretch to describe how I am waiting. "You bring bike, eh?" I ask Bonk evenly, taking a look at the rest of the Sparekeys going about their work.
Endeavor and Tailspin will be okay without this old man watching them. Maybe, they will be better than okay. Invert, she has hateful eyes of lying bitch, but smart too, I am thinking. Plus, this is our turf.
You end up sitting on the four wheeler's ass end, facing backwards, like before. As you're leaving, you see Endeavor shotgunning a beer can with a bullet hole in it while Invert plays with her new knife, flipping it around. And around.
Anything between 47th and Navy Pier of note?
We drive straight out to the lake, then cut a left, heading north along Shore Drive. Is there anything of note? Da, this stretch is Chi-town for a lot of people, between the towering pillars of frozen metal, and the death trap that is the frozen lake.
Crossover. Soldier's Field. Aquarium. Heh. And then there is the Amp Docks. What a fucked up history that place has. It's a sea of metal masts, strung with wire, sticking out of the ice. You could not pay me enough jingle to ride over there.
I've got one hand on the seat, and the other over my ribs, the entire trip. It's been worse, but not for since a long time ago, and I'm not so young, maybe.
Well, it seems like you're looking for Poke, and heading through gang territory, right? Let's use our custom move for that.
As a reminder:
When you head into gang territory looking for someone or something important, roll +Sharp. On a hit, choose options. On a 10+, you find what you're after. On a 7-9, choose one of the below options
- You can't find it/them
- You find what you're after, but there's trouble
On a miss, you're exposed and in some trouble. MC will detail.
(Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 4, 6. Total: 12)
The three of you arrive at the gate to Navy Pier around noon. When were you here last? How do they know you?
The first floor of the gate, which is a huge brick building, is almost completely ice. There are concrete barriers set up across from side to side, with a single lift which functions as the gate. If the guard decide to let you in, they haul up the lift and you enter on second floor.
What do you do?
I stick one of Roxy's cigarettes in my mouth and hop off the end of Sims' bike. Ah, Navy Pier. This place was my hold maybe five months ago, when I stumbled into Chi-town, dirty, cold, out of ice-cubes, and starving. I did security gig here, keeping peace, manning the lift. It's how I know Poke.
I light up and squint at the guard, walking across ice towards gate. To Sims I say, "Stay out here, and look after the bikes. If somebody is giving you trouble, call for help. These guards are good people." And then I motion to Bonk to follow. Is lesser of two evils. I'd rather have an idiot watching my back than a fucked-up dependent.
Sims shrugs, reaches into his pocket to pull out an Altoids tin with duct tape over it and the word BLISS scribbled in magic marker, looks like Silica's handwriting.
Bonk's an idiot? What's he do that makes you think that? I'm curious what you've picked up about him.
Gnu calls down, "Molotov? Well, bless my shriveled up nuts, man! Get your inked-up ass up here!" The lift lowers and the pulleys squeak and the cables slap against the brick and ice. You step onto the wide platform, big enough to pull up a four wheeler or a bigass wagon, but not made for cars (because shit, who'd drive a car on the pier anyways?)
Then you come up to second floor - receiving area. Gnu is there, the big thick bastard he is. A couple new blood hover near him, like satellites to his big orbit.
What do you do?
We hug. It isn't fucked-up-homo, not even close. But, we were close once, and for men who cannot show this often, this is good way to be showing it. "You are looking like shit, old friend, and this scrotum hair on chin is like illness." I scratch my own chin and narrow my eyes. "I am sorry if you are dying. Can I have the wife?" I say this seriously, is only way to tell joke.
I check out the new kids over Gnu's shoulder, but do not pay much attention. They don't look competent. Is Navy Pier slipping in standards?
And Bonk? Well, he is old, and two-timing, and hard of hearing. Maybe, he is not idiot, but is easier to think of him this way for now. I am sure soon I will be having to deal with his, what is it called, shrewdness, but I am in no-health for that day to be today.
"Sure, take her. Get in fucken line, man. I don't care." Gnu looks over his shoulder, at the pair of trainees, "Her kids. Not mine. Bitch." They flinch form his hateful gaze, looking at the floor, their scrawny bodies swallowed up by furs and layers of coats.
Gnu puts his arm around you, "What brings you here, man?" He's leading you towards the entrance to the Pier, past the machine gun nest and the dog cages. Do you have any dogs in there you like, Molotov?
Hah. Gnu knows I do not care for his wife; though I suspect he does, despite all of our guard duties being spent bitching about how miserable he was.
"Da, da. Your life is awful," I dismiss his misery, shaking my head, and lifting the poncho to reveal my fresh wound. It hurts like fuck, but I am pushing through. "Poke. Is understating to say my last couple of days have been messy-fucking-biznes."
As for dogs? Well, like is strong word, but maybe I appreciate their purpose. It would take serious barter to get me in that cage.
"You look like like over-cooked ass, Molotov," Gnu says as he walks with you to the door out of the gatehouse. "Poke is in his office." He stops before you reach the stairs, looks at Bonk. "Molotov, when did you travel with the Sparekys?"
Bonk declares, "He killed Carnation! He's the new bossman!"
Gnu looks to you, "That true?"
"Da," I tell Gnu, looking through the door, then back to him, "It was matter of responsibility. He was responsible for being jerk-off, so I shot him." I shrug my shoulder, like no big deal, "I'm over at Grease Park now. Let me know if wife gets too much, you are good shot, Gnu. It would be my pleasure to have your company."
Gnu looks a bit surprised, but it's not like he doesn't believe you could do it, just wondering why bother? But he raises his brows and says, "Well, good luck, man. I'll mention it to my wife. I'm sure she'll come by to fuck you senseless or something."
Bonk blinks, not sure how to take this guy, but you know he's kidding... mostly. Gnu starts to clap your back before you take the stairs down, but remembers you're shot up and just gives you "the nod".
Poke has a clinic set up in what was once a Haagen Dazs cafe.
There's a line of folks waiting for help. Why doesn't Poke have, you know, staff or anything?
What do you do?
Why? The first word is 'control,' and second is 'freak.' I mean, do not be getting me wrong, Poke is a genius, like better than anybody at what he does, but I used to wonder if it's more than that. Maybe, if Poke had decided one day, okay, I like guns, he wouldn't be capable of murdering entire Pier. He's a total fucking nut. I like him.
I can see the lake out the window, the lake and the sky, so I start looking for birds. It helps, washes away pain, the teeth-gritting frustration of hearing women and children sobbing around me, like woe is fucking me, like pay attention pay attention.
A part of me that needs washing away is Gnu. I could tell he was judging me, though keeping quiet, but the where the fuck is his right? I have Sparekeys. I have power, and all he has is whore suka of wife, and two little shits.
So, I grit teeth and try to wash that away, and look for birds.
While you're waiting in line, head over here.