Within the Walls
Jul. 21st, 2013 04:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aaaaaaaagh_skyThere was a soft plud! as Ellen made it over the wall and landed. She'd come down feet-first in a pile of something disgusting, flanked on both sides by lines of bushy green punga plants. Maybe not ideal- her footprints would be visible the instant she stepped away- but it would have to do. At least she didn't have to worry about Dogmeat trailing her. The heeler could jump a respectable distance, but a ten foot wall was a bit much even for him.
The walls enclosed a respectably sized parcel of land, most of which was taken up by a church building of grey-brown stone in surprisingly good condition. Ellen couldn't remember seeing any Wasteland churches that close to whole. Most of them were overrun by mutants or raiders long ago. This place, according to the ancient sign carved over its front doors, was the Ark and Dove Cathedral. Odd choice of name, but Ellen supposed she could see it, especially if the people who'd built it had survived some great flood or other. A few bare-limbed trees studded the grounds around the building, and here or there a grave marker listing heavily to one side or the other could be seen, but for the most part the open space around the cathedral was taken up by planting plots. These people really weren't kidding about growing pungas, it looked like.
(Although on closer inspection, not all the plots were punga plantings. Several of them were occupied by rows of crude clay pots with odd vines growing out of them, and a few sheltered plots seemed to be dedicated to what might have been some brown variety of cave fungus she'd never encountered before.)
Ellen moved with care from one solid patch of ground to another, doing her best to avoid leaving a trail. The Chinese stealth suit could make her look like a blurry patch of air, but it couldn't hide physical traces- and there were people about. They wore rough cloth sashes and ragged trousers, and carried what might have been either farm tools or excessively nasty melee weapons. Most of them wore some form of what Ellen guessed was jewelry- hard to say, as it was all made from rope and seemed to have bits of shell and glass sticking out of it. The oldest one she saw, a pale bald man somewhat taller than her father had been, had lines of red-brown paint around his eyes, and a wicked-looking crooked scar that extended up from the left side of his forehead well into where his hairline must have once been. He seemed to have some authority, pointing to this or that person and then to a plant patch, but he never left his position. Ellen realized after a moment that he was standing next to an intercom panel; she must have spoken to him when she approached the gate.
A dark-skinned younger man with short dark hair and similar red lines painted on his face started heading in Ellen's direction. She shuffled sideways hurriedly, but he showed no sign of having seen her. He knelt down beside one of the plants and started murmuring to it, crooning encouraging words she couldn't quite make out as he worked at the soil around its roots before moving on to the next-
Huh.
The young man also had a crooked scar on the left side of his forehead.
Ellen wasn't in a position to think that scars in or of themselves were anything unusual- Lord knew she had more than her share- but there was a difference between the sort of random scarring one picked up as a result of being attacked and the sort of scarring that looked almost identical on two different people. She edged away from the punga tender as smoothly as she dared and glanced towards a pair of young women who were slowly unloading the thick, viscous contents of a wooden tub into a wheelbarrow. One had orange hair and a line of red paint through her right eyebrow and another on her cheek. The other had brown hair and no face paint at all. Both of them had their hair shaved back from their foreheads.
Both of them had the same scar as the men.
Ellen's stomach knotted. Once was accident. Twice was coincidence, possibly assault. Four times? That was surgical procedure. She moved with painstaking slowness from one punga plot to another, pausing only to examine the tenders' faces. Every last one she saw, regardless of age or sex or skin color or face paint, bore the same crooked scar in the same position on their foreheads. And the more she watched the more she realized that every one of them seemed to be operating in a kind of haze. Some more so than others; the young woman with the brown hair seemed prone to rocking from one foot to the other, staring into the distance, if her orange-haired companion didn't periodically shake her and point her to the next task at hand. One man walked right past his punga patch and into the brick wall; a younger woman had to grab him and pull him away, and then grab both his wrists as he started trying to slap or punch her. The ones she heard speaking all sounded off, somehow....
"I kinda got my brain scooped out and then I had to get it back so they'd put it in. Apparently I was running on Tesla coils meanwhile. I mean, I felt a little weird, but...okay. Maybe more than a little."
"You mean... like what they used to do to make Robobrains?"
"Maybe. I dunno. I ran into some other folks like that but...they weren't doing so well."
"Hey- hey! Put that down!" Ellen's head jerked up; her hand was on the hilt of her sword before she realized the woman wasn't talking to her, but to the punga tender nearby. "Croatoa, no. Just- put that down, Croatoa. Come on, now...."
The man stared at the speaking woman, his expression uncomprehending.
"Oh, for-" The woman rolled her eyes. "It's me, remember? It's me. Woodrose. You know? I make sure you and the others remember to eat? Come on, now, Croatoa. You don't need to put that in your mouth. Put it down- that's right..."
The man bent over and lay a squashed but recognizable piece of the cave fungus at his feet. Then he straightened up and looked hopefully at Woodrose.
"Good, Croatoa. Very good." Her scar, Ellen noticed, was a little smaller than the man's. "Jackson's going to be really happy. You can go back to work now. I'll tell Jackson you were good."
Croatoa smiled happily and turned back to his work as Woodrose trotted off towards the cathedral doors. Ellen glanced hurriedly about and moved to follow her. It sounded like Jackson was in a position of some kind of authority. If these people had encountered the paladins at any point, she'd probably have to talk to him about it. None of the others here looked like they had enough brains left to remember... and, God help her, Ellen meant that literally.
The walls enclosed a respectably sized parcel of land, most of which was taken up by a church building of grey-brown stone in surprisingly good condition. Ellen couldn't remember seeing any Wasteland churches that close to whole. Most of them were overrun by mutants or raiders long ago. This place, according to the ancient sign carved over its front doors, was the Ark and Dove Cathedral. Odd choice of name, but Ellen supposed she could see it, especially if the people who'd built it had survived some great flood or other. A few bare-limbed trees studded the grounds around the building, and here or there a grave marker listing heavily to one side or the other could be seen, but for the most part the open space around the cathedral was taken up by planting plots. These people really weren't kidding about growing pungas, it looked like.
(Although on closer inspection, not all the plots were punga plantings. Several of them were occupied by rows of crude clay pots with odd vines growing out of them, and a few sheltered plots seemed to be dedicated to what might have been some brown variety of cave fungus she'd never encountered before.)
Ellen moved with care from one solid patch of ground to another, doing her best to avoid leaving a trail. The Chinese stealth suit could make her look like a blurry patch of air, but it couldn't hide physical traces- and there were people about. They wore rough cloth sashes and ragged trousers, and carried what might have been either farm tools or excessively nasty melee weapons. Most of them wore some form of what Ellen guessed was jewelry- hard to say, as it was all made from rope and seemed to have bits of shell and glass sticking out of it. The oldest one she saw, a pale bald man somewhat taller than her father had been, had lines of red-brown paint around his eyes, and a wicked-looking crooked scar that extended up from the left side of his forehead well into where his hairline must have once been. He seemed to have some authority, pointing to this or that person and then to a plant patch, but he never left his position. Ellen realized after a moment that he was standing next to an intercom panel; she must have spoken to him when she approached the gate.
A dark-skinned younger man with short dark hair and similar red lines painted on his face started heading in Ellen's direction. She shuffled sideways hurriedly, but he showed no sign of having seen her. He knelt down beside one of the plants and started murmuring to it, crooning encouraging words she couldn't quite make out as he worked at the soil around its roots before moving on to the next-
Huh.
The young man also had a crooked scar on the left side of his forehead.
Ellen wasn't in a position to think that scars in or of themselves were anything unusual- Lord knew she had more than her share- but there was a difference between the sort of random scarring one picked up as a result of being attacked and the sort of scarring that looked almost identical on two different people. She edged away from the punga tender as smoothly as she dared and glanced towards a pair of young women who were slowly unloading the thick, viscous contents of a wooden tub into a wheelbarrow. One had orange hair and a line of red paint through her right eyebrow and another on her cheek. The other had brown hair and no face paint at all. Both of them had their hair shaved back from their foreheads.
Both of them had the same scar as the men.
Ellen's stomach knotted. Once was accident. Twice was coincidence, possibly assault. Four times? That was surgical procedure. She moved with painstaking slowness from one punga plot to another, pausing only to examine the tenders' faces. Every last one she saw, regardless of age or sex or skin color or face paint, bore the same crooked scar in the same position on their foreheads. And the more she watched the more she realized that every one of them seemed to be operating in a kind of haze. Some more so than others; the young woman with the brown hair seemed prone to rocking from one foot to the other, staring into the distance, if her orange-haired companion didn't periodically shake her and point her to the next task at hand. One man walked right past his punga patch and into the brick wall; a younger woman had to grab him and pull him away, and then grab both his wrists as he started trying to slap or punch her. The ones she heard speaking all sounded off, somehow....
"I kinda got my brain scooped out and then I had to get it back so they'd put it in. Apparently I was running on Tesla coils meanwhile. I mean, I felt a little weird, but...okay. Maybe more than a little."
"You mean... like what they used to do to make Robobrains?"
"Maybe. I dunno. I ran into some other folks like that but...they weren't doing so well."
"Hey- hey! Put that down!" Ellen's head jerked up; her hand was on the hilt of her sword before she realized the woman wasn't talking to her, but to the punga tender nearby. "Croatoa, no. Just- put that down, Croatoa. Come on, now...."
The man stared at the speaking woman, his expression uncomprehending.
"Oh, for-" The woman rolled her eyes. "It's me, remember? It's me. Woodrose. You know? I make sure you and the others remember to eat? Come on, now, Croatoa. You don't need to put that in your mouth. Put it down- that's right..."
The man bent over and lay a squashed but recognizable piece of the cave fungus at his feet. Then he straightened up and looked hopefully at Woodrose.
"Good, Croatoa. Very good." Her scar, Ellen noticed, was a little smaller than the man's. "Jackson's going to be really happy. You can go back to work now. I'll tell Jackson you were good."
Croatoa smiled happily and turned back to his work as Woodrose trotted off towards the cathedral doors. Ellen glanced hurriedly about and moved to follow her. It sounded like Jackson was in a position of some kind of authority. If these people had encountered the paladins at any point, she'd probably have to talk to him about it. None of the others here looked like they had enough brains left to remember... and, God help her, Ellen meant that literally.