[Big Maul] Order Up! (B 1.1, SnS 1.1)

edited April 2014 in Big Maul
Big Mac and Sweet N Sour:

It's been three days now since the last Breezestorm happened. That was one of the worst in memory, right? Howling cacophonous winds and screams from the outside, battering at windows and seeping through cracks. The muzak held it back in the core, but folks around the outer sections of the Big Maul had to wear buds and phones to keep the Dance at bay.

The Big Maul's muzak is playing this song:

Big Mac:

At one point during the Breezestorm, you were out at SEARS when a huge gust burst through the revolving door. You heard a woman's voice, calling to you. You wanted to go to her, didn't you? Who was it? What did she say to you, Big Mac, something you've wanted to hear for a while, right?

Who pulled you back?

So you share Food Court with Sweet N' Sour. Why's that? You two buddy-buddy or is it a "keep your enemies closer" kinda thing? What's your place like, where do you sleep? Do you sleep alone, have a guard, a main squeeze, anything like that?

Sweet N' Sour:

How many heads did you hafta bust when the shit was hitting the fan during that Breezestorm? Who took care of it, one of yours, or are you the kind of guy who takes care of things personally?

How did you gang score those sweet dirt bikes? I mean, the sporting goods store only had a couple, so did you take them from someone else or go raid a store out in the Breeze? How long have you had them?

What's your spot in the Food Court like, Sweet? How does your gang of Maul Rats hole up? Do they all crash in your space, or is Food Court more of a garage or what?


  • edited April 2014
    So. The bikes?
    When the sky was still safe, there were more gangs outside. They used the steel forest at the end of the tunnels and built ramps, an arena, and ran contests for fantastic prizes. They drove fast and wild, spraying the dirt around, doing tricks in the air. They got cans of drink, colored packets of chips, and partied hardcore, with huge lights and wicked sounds. Everyone had a bike, everyone was free.
    I guess the first Breezestorm happened fast.
    That's where we got the bikes. They're ours now.

  • My brain burns when I hear her voice. I cannot sleep. Looking at myself in the ornate mirror, its frame resplendent with black ironwork pinwheels, I can see I’m a fucking mess. My face is lined and puckered, and from within my puffy cheeks glint red bloodshot eyes. I’m not sure how long I can keep this shit up in front of the men, the mask of bravado is slipping.

    I just need to close my eyes and sleep, but when I do I hear her voice, and I don’t want to hear her voice.

    Velcro stands guard outside my offices, not an ideal place to kick back and relax, but I’ve not been doing any of that lately anyway, he’s one mean motherfucker and won’t let any of the gang through without my express permission, which is good, they can’t be allowed to see my vulnerability, too much rides on the stability of this hardhold.

    This crap started during the Breezestorm. I was overseeing a merchandise transfer when a blast of wind burst through the revolving door and for a second the clatter and whirl of those large glass panes drowned out the muzak.

    In that moment I was lost. Amongst the cries of the children of the breeze I could hear her, calling for me. She’d be a full-grown woman by now, had she lived and not been dragged into the unlife beyond the Maul. I could hear her telling me she loved me, words I’ve wanted to hear for so long and which I never wanted to hear at all.

    I awoke with one of Sweet N Sour’s gang smashing my head against the floor, apparently I’d made towards the door, I don’t remember a thing. His gang had had to wrestle me to the ground. I’d fought against them and shouted at them to get the fuck off me, words that would have earned someone else a knife in the guts, but they respect Sweet N Sour, and Sweet could see the light of sanity had gone from my eyes. I fucking love that dude, I would have been a goner had it not been for one of his boys grabbing my ears and knocking some sense back into me.

    This display of weakness could have disrupted the balance of the hardhold, but Sweet hasn’t shown any signs of wanting to take control and our gangs maintain a respectful cordiality within the Food Court, so for now, the status quo is undisturbed.

    I stand in the centre of the sparsely furnished office I call my home and stare in the mirror at the stranger regarding me with red-rimmed eyes. He’s a fucking mess. He needs a shave.
  • Big Mac:

    There's a clear knock on the door. Must be Velcro. He'd make sure you knew someone was coming. And the way he saw you, this must be important. But you could always send him away. You don't have to take visitors.

    What do you do?
  • The knock at the door makes me start. Fucking hell, I’m jumpy. “Velcro, whoever it is, make ‘em wait” I shout. Slowly, through a seeming fog in my brain I co-ordinate my limbs to transport me over to the sink, and with slow deliberation, I begin to lather my face. I’m going to have to shave with some care to prevent my shaking hands from slitting my sorry throat. It’s like I’ve got the DT’s, but I haven’t had a drink in weeks, and it’s longer since I’ve been to the AMC, there’s too much shit going on around the hardhold for me to relax without the fucking voice in the Breeze haunting my dreams.

    The razor grates across my face, each vibration lancing into my brain, disrupting my mental preparations to deal with whoever has come to fuck up my day.
  • It's Velcro. He waits, keeping the visitor at bay until you're presentable. I assume at some point, you do let him bring them in?

    Velcro opens the door, and lets in, of all people, fucking Auntie Anne:

    "Da music stopped las night, Big Mac!" Auntie Anne starts off right away in that scratchy, deep rumbling tone of hers. "I came 'ere to see what choo doin about it! Da Breeze is comin back, but soon, an we're all dead meat if you don' fix it!" She's throwing her hand around while talking about this, her black curtain-robe shifting as she moves.

    Velcro is by the door, looking at you, over her, giving you the "sorry boss" look.

    What do you do?
  • I am not yet up. My brain is fizzing and buzzing, and the colors are playing all over the inside of the old oven.
    I am staring at the ceiling, 6 inches from my nose, focusing my eyes on the darkness, WILLING the colors to calm the fuck down and stop moving so much.
    The sparking and buzzing in my head is still going, like it always has since that day, years ago. I can sleep in the silence of a cold, metal coffin because my brain will not be quiet, not ever. Well. Except when I make the world outside loud enough.

    Yesterday was a loud day for me and mine, because it was quiet for everyone else. The Breeze whipped up against the walls, howling and screeching, and the muzak got... stronger. Not louder, but stronger, like it was really trying to fight back, be more clear, drown out the breeze.
    My nose started bleeding, and at the height of the storm, the muzak shut off.
    Oh, that was a a moment. Pure silence inside, chaos without. Then the chaos came in, and fuckin' everyone panicked.
    I kicked Shred and Pickles up, they got the others, and we mounted up, neon crackling, full colors. I pulled out the blaster and started yelling. "Fucking everyone's gonna panic, muzak's off, shit gonna hit the fan. Get in there and fuck everything up, make noise, hit people if they're actin' crazy, do something, anything." I looked across my hungry pack of neon-lit savages. Fuck, they looked good. We looked like someone's nightmare. "Let's get violent, motherfuckers! VIOLENCE KINGS!"

    My eyes crack open again. Did I dream? I hope so.
    Sweet's oven looks like this, except half as tall. He has to slide in and out on his back, and it's all cold iron.
  • Sweet N Sour, do you sleep alone? If not, who's with you? How's that going?

    What about your gang, do they have coffin hotel rooms, too? Or do they crash wherever they can? Do you keep your bikes in the same place that they sleep?
  • edited April 2014
    Oh, I sleep alone. I have to. Too much twitching, too many colors, and if someone else was in here I'd hear them breathing. Breathing is an ugly sound.
    My gang crashes around the Sbarro, an area about 2 store-fronts wide that we've strung with camo netting from the hunting section of the sporting good store, glowsticks, some flourescent tubes taken from the ceiling. All the lights are colored, white and yellow hurt my bad eye. They crash in assortments of sleeping bags, broken sofas, chairs - 80s house party furniture. Every morning looks like the aftermath of a sleepover inside a Q-Zar laser tag arena.
    Shedd's my right-hand woman, and she wakes me if I haven't already come out to perch on the counter and carve circuit diagrams in the formica countertop with my machete. It's like meditation, cutting bits away until I see what I want to.
    I think Shedd... likes me? She'd have to. Somehow. She's too focused on being good at her job.
    The bikes, of course, are always at hand - the most valuable thing we have never leaves our sight.
  • edited April 2014
    Sweet N Sour, by the time you come rolling out of bed, half the gang is up. They must be, they aren't here. Shedd is, though. When you come out, she's busy working on one of the bikes, re-routing the fuel line around some broken parts.

    "Sweet!" Shedd says as she stands up, a socket wrench in hand. "Some of the VKs went out hunting for shit for Rache. She's offering a bit o credit at the AMC for work. I let em go. That cool?" She steps closer, dropping her voice, "I heard Hottopic's workin on the Muzak, she should get it fixed up. You didn't sleep so good, yeah?"

    This is Shedd:
  • edited April 2014
    I stretch, swiping my hand across the good side of my face, and examine my (dirty, gnawed, broken) nails. I'm feeling hot and scratchy on the inside. Last night's dreams were loud and thick, streets alive with neon, men of red-eyed chrome, me bleeding out into a dirty gutter, alone, blind, used up. I'm not telling her that. Instead of talking, I just let it out.

    I deliberately turn to put Shedd on my left, fixing her with my bad eye. "That isn't your bike, Shedd. You putting in turns for someone else?" She shifts, uncomfortably. I keep going before she can say anything. "Yeah. Yesterday, that was hell of a thing, huh? Good thing we did something. Good we made the noise. Brought the violence. Good thing we had someone to give a fuck about what happened to us and ours, and someone to stick to in the shit, and something we could fucking depend on."

    I stop, breaking my carefully calculated stare, glancing around, startled by the echoes of my voice... How long had I been shouting? The whole time? I think back over what I just said. Sour. Definitely Sour.
    My head twitches around to fix Shedd with the glare again, but I stop and give her both eyes and try to kill the glare. "You done good before, and will again, but only if you stop covering for people. Yesterday was close. Tomorrow might be closer. If we got people fucking off to go get jingle for someone else, they better have their shit in order first." I turn away, but listen hard. Hopefully she isn't fixing to draw down on me.

    Read Person: Did I just blow it? Is she still on my side here?

    Post-Roll: Fuck. I blew it something fierce.
  • (Rolled: 2d6+1 . Rolls: 2, 3. Total: 6)
  • edited April 2014
    Shedd screws up her mouth like words almost burst out, then she looks over her shoulder real quick. Checking to make sure it's just you two. She puts the socket wrench down, steps closer, close enough for you to smell the mint from the mouthwash she used this morning, says real low and serious, "Sweet. You got your way. I gots mine. These guys don't know their ass from a bike, and if I let them futz around, we'll be up shit creek. When I tell you I let em go and izzat cool, you're s'posed to say, "Hell yes". The whores are trading snatch for scrounging. That saves us shitloads of jingle. And while they're gone, I keep things running. That's my thing. Don't shit on my thing."

    She swallows a bit, as surprised at her ire as you probably are, then steps back, asking brightly, "That cool?"
  • edited April 2014
    I keep looking away. Fuckin' hell. I slowly draw my Magnum and aim it high, away at the ceiling, looking down the sight, centering myself with the precisely aligned glowing bars. I feel my anger deflating, washing away. I dangle the Magnum at my side and turn back, giving her my good eye.
    "We cool, Shedd. We cool as long as you never put that chrome tongue of yours in my mouth. You know you don't talk what I do. You sound like rust and oil in my mouth."
    I move the Magnum up, crossing my arms on my chest, pointing it up and right.
    "You know your thing and how you run it. That's you, and you're good. But anything involving this-" I shake the Magnum slightly- "That's me." I holster it fast and hard, and exhale. Peace offering time. I wipe the scowl off my face, but I'm not smiling. "Now, you wanna come with me to go see Big Mac? I'm gonna need that silver tongue of yours, mine ain't so hot this morn." Not leaving her alone after that little episode.

    OOC - If she declines or fights this "request," I'm going to use Pack Alpha and come down on her hard.
  • To Sweet N Sour:

    Shedd's mouth twitches in annoyance, maybe disappointment, when you tell her never to put her chrome tongue in your mouth. But she's not going to back down and apologize now. That would seem weak.

    "Big Mac? Hell to the yeah." Shedd answers brightly, accepting the olive branch. "You really saved his ass last night. Why the hell was he trying to walk out into the Breeze like that? You think he's got some death wish or something?"

    She's making conversation as she puts away her tools and wraps up. You two can talk on your way over to see Big Mac.
  • edited April 2014
    As we walk over I'm not talking much. I'm thinking - Big Mac, big man around the Maul. He's not special, though. He's got something inside him that the Breeze is holding on to, something it tugs when it wants him to dance, like we all do.
    I'm kicking debris out of my way as I walk - it's a fucking mess around here after a Breezestorm, things always break, and the dirt and detritus always wafts down from the ceiling into little ugly piles, sometimes with a desiccated rat or bird to the bargain.
    "Shedd, Big Mac is gonna be... he's gonna be raw when we get there. Like somebody sandpapered his brain. Be careful. Watch the left."
    I'm a little nervous. People with power aren't too kind about seeming weak, even for a moment. Is Mac going to make this a problem?
  • Sweet N Sour,

    Shedd falls in line, "Sure, boss... sorry about being touchy earlier. Just, you know. I take enough shit from them. Didn't want you to, ah, give up on me."

    You get to the offices for Big Mac, and Velcro's outside. Big fucker towers over you, shakes his head, "No way, Sweet. He's indi-fucking-sposed. Leave a message. He'll send for you when he's free."

    I assume you don't push that, right?

    Let's skip ahead a bit.

    In the later afternoon, most of the gang has come back with whatever shit Rache had them searching for, and Pickles comes walking up to you, looking pissed, his left eye bleeding. Like blood tears, looks painful. "YO! Sweet, man. Fucking ladyboy Cache took my bike's keys!"
  • Yeah, I won't push Velcro. Yet. I'm gonna give him my death-eye and leave without saying anything. That cocksucker is out of line, he doesn't just get to push me off after what I did for him. But I'll collect later.

    I crack my good eye open from where I've been dozing. The newest batch of lines is on my left, scratched into the top of a table I'm leaning against.
    "Pickles." I stand, cracking my neck. "I'm not 'yo'. And I'm feeling decided Sour today." I pause and look him over. "You got your ass kicked, and I think I heard you say you lost something." I'm scowling now. "Something important."

    I'm waiting for him to try and explain this. If he can. He's going to regret it even if his story is good.
  • Sweet N Sour

    Pickles hitches up, like he knows that look. Holds up hands, "Whoah man. She-he snuck me, Sour! Like some fucking inviso punch mind shit! He-she did somethin to my head! We need to hunt it the fuck down. Get my bike keys back!"

    Shedd's around, listening. Who else is here to hear this, Sour?
  • His yelling when he got here probably brought most of the gang around. Slice, Chovie, Shake, Bacon and some others are half-watching. Stick is crouched under a table nearby, and he looks like he's giggling quietly. Sick fucker.
    I keep my cleaver out and tap it gently against the left side of my head, letting the glow shine on my face.
    "So. You go out to get something for Rache, Shedd says. You come back bleeding from the eye like you took a pipe to the face, saying this ladyboy hooker stole your bike out from under you?"
    I shake my head and spit. "Come here and let me see."
    Pickles walks up, slowly, tense. He's seen enough to know that I'm in the mood to make someone bleed, almost definitely him. I put down the cleaver, reach out and hold his head with both hands, probing for bruises. I find one, but on the back of his head, and see that he is, indeed, bleeding from the inner corners of his eyes. Not a pipe, then.
    I curl my hand around the back of his neck. "You speak true."
    His relief is palpable, and I let his face just begin to collapse into a half-smile before I knee him, hard, in the pit of the stomach.
    He makes a squeaky, betrayed sound, and I keep hold of his neck as I slowly lower him down. I'm whispering in his ear: "Today you're a fuckup and an idiot, Pickles, but I believe you. The Kings ride to find the truth of this matter. If I find your hand on this idiocy, though, I will visit violence upon you."
    I let go of him and stand. "His truth does not erase his failure, but he still rides with us." I pick up the cleaver again. "Pickles might have fucked up, but the bike is ours. Nobody steals from the Violence Kings. We're going to go fucking tax this Cache for whatever she can pay." I look about. "Time for some VIOLENCE."

    We're riding out to find Cache, and Pickles is riding pillion with someone. If he fucking whines, anyone's free to smack him.

    ((Should I make a Pack Alpha roll for making an example out of Pickles?))
  • You know, Sweet N Sour, I don't see a Pack Alpha needed here. He wanted help getting his keys, and while things aren't rosy, you're doing that.

    The Violence Kings ride off into the Big Maul, hunting for Cache...
  • edited April 2014
    Sweet N Sour... your whole gang hunts the Maul, the AMC, every-damn-where, and no sign of Cache anywhere. The fucker might be out of doors maybe.

    Your gang is riding around, trying to find zir when Slice comes back from the AMC, saying, "Bossman, no Cache nowhere, man. But in the AMC, it's a fuck-a-thon, man! Can some of us dip our wicks while Pickle-asswipe looks for his lil bike keys?"
  • At this point I'm more than a little pissed, but we've done work. "Fuck it. Let's go in force. Keep an eye out, we'll either hunt this Cache down inside or in the afterward."
    I grin, wide, like a shark. "You will be the cover. Pickles and I will be the finders, looking for the other kind of action that gets hot, wet, and squishy.
    We enter the AMC.

  • When you take you gang out Headhunting, roll+Hard. On a hit, choose options. On a 7-9, choose two to be true. On a 10+, choose three.
    * you lock the target (take +1 Forward against the target)
    * you fade the line (they don't know you're coming)
    * spread the net (your gang is still with you)
    * catch the man (you enter a scene with them)

    On a miss, the MC will detail what happens during the hunt, but it aint good.
  • edited April 2014
    We're making this happen, the Violence Kings are. We file in, unnoticed due to the lights, the sound, the scent... sex is in the air, hot and throbbing, making your clothes itchy and uncomfortable. I wrap my hand around the butt of my Magnum, kneading it, focusing on picking someone out, not the dew of sweat on milky-white skin, or the curve of exposed hips, or the sighs (and bitten-back screams) I can hear. I am aware of the irony. But my heart lurches - The Neon is here. I can hear the susurrus of its call beneath the noise and chatter. I can see the lights flashing and my bad eye is trying to show me that yeah, see, they all connect like this... I shake my head, hard, and move the hammer of the Magnum to half-cock, fingering the cylinder forward one notch at a time, slowly, delicately, paying exquisite attention to the soft crick-crick-crick of the mechanism.
    I wave my right hand down low, motioning for the VKs to spread out. Let's see what we've got.
  • (Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 2, 4. Total: 8)
  • (( 8 - Pick 2 - Fade the Line, Spread the Net ))
    Where... where do you hide, little broken one? Where do you crawl away to? I jump. The Neon is whispering to me again, and I unfocus my eyes, tracking movement, not people... and there! The trapdoor on the stage is just closing, a slither of black fabric sliding through. My blood is pumping, beating in the back of my bad eye, and my hands are cold.
    With an evil smile, I set off through the crowd, letting my nasty demeanor clear the path. I'm going to gather the VKs to go after that thief... or maybe, to lay a little surprise party.
  • Sweet N Sour, you've got your gang, on foot in here, right? You all move up to the stage, where there's a damn orgy winding down, wriggling bodies, the smells of sweat and sex, men and women look up at you.

    As you near the trapdoor down to some old ladder, a little blonde Asian girl with overalls that are open to show off her pert little breasts comes up. It's Jules, a dancer here. "Sweet! What's up? You and yours need something?" She's smiling wide and full of herself, more than a little sweaty and probably tired. But she steps in front of the trapdoor.

    What do you do?
  • Of course. I keep the shark-smile frozen on my mouth. Hi there, short stuff. I drop my head, peering out at her with my bad eye, hooded. We're just passing through. I jab my finger at her, then point to the side. Away.
    I'm not going to wait more than a second or two for her to move, either she gets the message or she doesn't.
  • Jules swallows, looking at you, and the rest of your crew of Violence Kings. She puts a hand on her hip, a tiny show of defiance, and says, "Sure, sure, Sweety. But that door leads to Jet's office, and he's got company. We shouldn't bother him after a show, you know?" She keeps her voice light, offering, "You and your boys wanna party?"

    Yeah, looks like you'll have to move her. And she's not some island, there are other dancers around, starting to pay attention. They're not VKs, but they're not push-overs, either.

    Are you Going Aggro here? Intent to do violence?
  • Really? Sweety? Eat razors, you candy-lipped whore. I twitch, violently. That's all the warning she's going to get.

    Going Aggro.
    (Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 1, 3. Total: 6)
  • That's all the warning she needed, it seems. She sees you flinch, and steps back, like she's giving up the trapdoor to you. "Just you. Leave the gang behind, or we will have a serious fucking problem."

    A few of the dancers have disentangled themselves from their partners, moved up around your guys. You've got guns, but they've got your guys surrounded. You'll hurt them, Sweet N Sour, but they will not roll over on you.

    What do you do?
  • I step right up to her, and lean in to her, close. If she pulls away, so much the better. This isn't a war, little one, but if you keep fucking with us like that, I'll serve you what you're buying. I straighten up and walk back to Shedd, and give it to her low, in her ear. Send Chop and Stick 'round to find where this rat-hole leads, and ghost it. If I'm not back in a while, do what you know. I straighten up, now back to normal volume. Take some fingers if it looks like they're dipping into our till, here. I walk back to Jules and then past her, don't even bother with eye contact, and haul up the trapdoor. The hole waits, deep and dark. I crack a glowstick and bite down on it, and start picking my way through the darkness. Hell of a way to get to a bed.
  • Alright, Sweet N Sour, go here.
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