Ellen Park, the Lone Wanderer

"Not on the scale of Takoma Industrial or the Nuka-Cola plant," Ellen says, "but there were a few places west of here that used to be garages and vehicle maintenance shops. Those kinds of buildings were pretty ideal for manufacturing chems- I ran into a ghoul once who was using an old Metro station to make a new version of Jet."

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masterofgunfu

Andrea takes another deep breath and shakes her head.

"You guys have problems with drugs here? Cause this kind of reminds me of some of the street drugs I see manufactured back home. Not exactly but it's closer to it than cleaning chemicals. They also are in pretty good health, or were."

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"That's what Jet is," Ellen says. "It's a stimulant, a nasty one. It's pretty popular with the violent and murdering types, too. Murphy, that ghoul I mentioned, was making an amped-up version using pre-War sugar cereal." She wrinkles her nose. "There's also Psycho, which was meant to make soldiers faster and more dangerous during the Resource Wars. People use that to get high these days. And Buffout is basically oral steroids that tend to induce psychotic berserker rages. It's pretty popular with raider types. Med-X you don't see so much in the field, though. That's synthetic opioid painkiller, so that's more the kind of thing people use back at base. It wouldn't surprise me at all if these guys had been using Jet before we ran across them."

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masterofgunfu

"Oh this just sounds like oodles of fun," Andrea dead pans. "Let me see this blood."

She walks over and crouches down to pick up some of the blooded dirt and gives it a good smell as well.

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The thing about Buffout is that when you get it down your throat, it tends to induce a number of body reactions that mimic healing, at least temporarily. Mostly in the 'hey, I'm not bleeding any more' vein- so to speak. People who haven't got stimpaks to genuinely induce the healing process will sometimes chorf the stuff down to get away from an unwelcome combat situation even if they're not looking for a good old fashioned 'roid rage.

So, yeah; what do metabolized steroids smell like a day or two after the fact? This, pretty much.

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masterofgunfu

And see the funny thing about the Lyc-V virus is it is very territorial and jealous. It reacts to things that can harm the host and so when Andrea smells the strong chemical, her beast self perks up it's ears despite the lack of magic in this world.

For herself, Andrea coughs and says, "Ya, if they use drugs, that was a Raider," as she stands.

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"I've dealt with more than my fair share of folks strung out on something or other. Definitely not fun."

Drugs + Mad Science = Bad News. "On the plus side, them not being able to feel it don't matter much when you jelly most of their brain."

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"So we got twelve bad dudes with assault rifles, most headed south, all hopped up on drugs, and more'n likely holding a local gunsmith hostage."

He stands up, brushes off his fatigues.

"We better fuckin' haul ass before one of 'em dopes up and puts two through his fuckin' brainpan."

He peers south, squinting despite himself at the low rolling hills.

"We should be good if we hug the scent trail. Not a lot of cover, but long sight lines, so 'less someone up in that fuckin' tower takes a shot," he says, pointing to Tenpenny Tower, "we'd be on equal terms with any shithead who wants to take us."

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"They'd better not. The robot factory and the wind farm are between us and Tenpenny Tower," Ellen says. "If anyone in the tower tries to attack us I'm telling you now, I'm going off course to let Paladin Rama know."

Then she straightens up and dusts off her hands.

"Let's get moving. We've been here long enough that I'm a little surprised we haven't had a visit from one of the giant scorpions."

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"Good point. I don't want to waste ammo on killing those things if I don't have to."

Waste not, want not and all that jazz.

Down the trail Annabelle goes, although Ellen's in front since she has the best idea of where they're headed.

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Voodoo's a little in front and a little to the right, uncomfortable with the four of them being in any sort of orderly line. There's movement in the corner of his eye, and he snaps his head around just in time to see a scorpion the size of a Toyota skitter over a nearby hill.

Just another day in the Wastes.

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Ellen's cow is meandering along at a moderate distance from the humans, not seeming particularly upset boy the scorpion; it's far enough away not to be a problem, and anyway Ellen made a point of getting Brahmin-suitable armor from Sameth some time ago. It goes a long way.

Ellen herself is busy scanning the ground in the distance intently, looking for signs of where various split-off trails might go. It was easier chasing Dave's kidnappers down. They were all headed to exactly the same place, and as far as she could tell they were pretty sober. These people don't seem to have been able to walk a straight line for more than a few yards; she really, really hopes Andrea's senses are capable of making up for that fact, or that Annabelle's experiences with more skilled human trackers let her get an idea of what to look for.

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Annabelle can help keep Ellen on track, sure.

Pointing out brush damaged here or scuffs in the dirt there that indicate where the scattering humans went.

"Bah. Looks like they scattered like frightened birds, the bastards."

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Voodoo shrugs, one-shouldered and quick.

"If I was a raider and you put a dozen guys in power armor on my ass, I'd scatter, too."

He leaves the tracking to the others. Someone's gotta pull security while they're doing that.

Edited Date: 2013-02-24 02:11 am (UTC)

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They keep moving.

It's a big Wasteland, and there's a lot of things in it. Most of them are either harmless or sensible enough to find somewhere else to be when the humans turn up in their line of sight. Radroaches can't always be bothered to leap up at passers-by, after all, and it's not as if there's much need for bloatflies the size of rabbits to assault everything that moves. They've fed enough lately, after all.

But a sharp eye that happens to be pointed in the right direction might notice that up ahead, across the remains of a road where the terrain starts to turn rocky, there's something moving that's a little too dark for shadows and a little too small for a yao guai.

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Annabelle catches that particular something and brings up her rifle to have a better look through the scope.

"We've got company on the horizon. Male, 20's, dark hair. No armor, but he's carrying a hunting rifle. Also, looks like he's had the shit kicked out of him."

"Don't think he's a raider, but he might have had a run in with the bastards we're tracking."

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Voodoo unslings his rifle and peers through the scope, his trigger finger on the magazine well.

"Could be just a guy lookin' for some game to hunt. Won't know until we get closer. Assumin' he don't spook."

He looks away from the scope, eyeballing the figure. It's about 200 yards of open ground between them and him, long enough for him to see them coming. Also, conveniently enough, short enough for him to take a potshot at them, should he so desire.

"Think you can get behind him while we work our way toward him, Ellen?"

Edited Date: 2013-02-24 03:10 am (UTC)

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The goggles come off, the suit's headpiece comes up, and-

foomp

-there is a vaguely person-shaped blur where Ellen used to be.

"I can do that, sure," the blur says cheerfully.

(She loves this suit.)

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Damn, that suit of armor is handy. It's even better than the trick Whitley used to be able to pull to make people not notice him.

Annabelle grins. "I'll take whichever side you don't cover, Voodoo. Just in case."

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Voodoo nods, exchanging the rifle for his machine gun. "I got his left. No use doin' this part sneaky. If he runs, beat his ass. Or, y'know, tackle him. Whichever comes easier."

And so they set off, plodding over the foothills, trying to look as diplomatic as they can.

(It's more of an effort for some than for others.)

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It's a good try, it really is. And it's probably why the next time one of them gets a look up at the fellow's position, he's still just watching them, rather than firing on any of them.

(Well. That and it's a .32 cal hunting rifle that can really only do so much at that distance. But still.)

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Well, so far so good.

Once they're in shouting distance, Voodoo takes the handguard of his M60 in his left hand and waves to the stranger.

"Hey there! How you doin'?"

Edited Date: 2013-02-24 03:42 am (UTC)

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"I'd wager he's not feeling so hot, on account of looking like he's been beat to shit," Annabelle adds, cheerful.

"Did you win?" she asks the stranger.

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"I've had better days," the young man calls back, though he doesn't lower his rifle. "I'm still standing, I can say that much."

He's... well, he's squatting, so it's hard to tell his height. And the crude Brahmin-skin clothing he's wearing doesn't really give much about him away. But that's not the face of a man who's eaten properly recently, no sir.

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