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APOCALYPSE FOX: SOLO CAMPAIGN WRITE-UPS
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AtiyaTheSeeker
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CloseSo, uh. I've got some bad news about the Fallout 4 journaling idea. Unfortunately my computer is a piece of junk, with an integrated graphics chip and no good CPU upgrades with its cheap motherboard. This means that, even with a cheap 8GB RAM upgrade, I cannot play Fallout 4 right now.
Buuuuuut, to compensate for this, I've got something I want to share for that post-apocalyptic story itch. Late last year I had been doing a solitaire tabletop RPG campaign. Basically acting as both the Game Master and a player, distancing myself from metagaming as the player role and randomizing stuff with tables and a d6 "oracle". I've been using them as a sort of writing experiment for a sci-fantasy character of mine, Dana the Apocalypse Fox.
There's no much left of my prior sessions on r/Solo_Roleplaying, but I've decided to pick things back up. From what notes and memories I have of the first adventure, I've been trying to write them into a first-person novelette. But for now, I've picked up a new game to use and have the first session complete. Rather than merely posting the links from my Reddit posts, I'm deciding to host the session write-ups here.
The game used is Other Dust, an Old School Renaissance game that emulates TSR's Gamma World with the nuances of AD&D. I previously used Savage Worlds Adventure Edition, but some elements of play didn't rub me the right way in the prior adventure. I'll be hosting the house rules and Dana's current stat blocks in spoilers below. Feel free to comment with any questions, comments or concerns!
- House Rules -
Using card-based initiative a la Savage Worlds for combat. Cards are drawn for Dana, any allies, groups of enemies, and notable enemies separately and for every round of combat. 2 is the lowest initiative, while Ace is the highest. A Joker lets the user act when they desire, and adds +2 to all d20 rolls for that round. The deck is not shuffled unless a) the combat ends or b) the round after a Joker is drawn ends.
Dana will start at 2nd Level. She doesn't gain XP per session as suggested, but instead will accumulate it through defeating (killing or subduing) foes, or donating salvaged items. Enemies award XP akin to Basic Fantasy RPG's rules on page 42, based on their Hit Dice. Foes with notable powers add the “Special Ability Bonus” to XP earned, but not all powers add this bonus. Donated salvage can only be turned in at settlements, and the amount of XP granted can vary; otherwise it is gained on a 1-for-1 ratio with its barter value.
Supported house rule suggestions are taken from Other Dust. Dana had started with two mutations chosen by me, with their effects and flaws picked instead of randomized. Any allied NPCs I concoct can do the same; those who don't have mutations instead gain 4 points to distribute to their ability scores. The other house rule used was the exchange of two random loot rolls for one piece of loot chosen. As a shovel and utility tarp seem useless from my random rolls, I decided to cheese it and remove them for a special starting weapon (see below). Her two random items gained are d4+1 clean rations (rolled 3), and a medkit (which is something I'd hoped for).
Speaking of items, I decided to give Dana a Thermal Pistol and two Type A Power Cells to power and shoot it. To compensate for the potent plasma pistol I swapped her starting Sword with a Knife. Decided it would make more sense to let her have access to her signature blaster, as she'd started past 1st Level.
Her smartphone is on the fritz for now, and I'm planning on creating them as unique items. Having access to the remnants of the internet could be a bit powerful anyway, which was something her phone could do back in Savage Worlds Adventure Edition. Not totally sure if something like a smartphone already exists in Other Dust, I'm not totally familiar with the equipment.
I'll be using a simple oracle based on the d6, along with random charts from Other Dust. On the d6 – 1 is a “No, and”; 2 is “No”; 3 is “No, but”; 4 is “Yes, but”, 5 is “Yes”, and 6 is “Yes, and”.
- Dana's Stats (Session One) -
Dana Cooper, Survivor / 2
Background: Hunter; Training: Last of the Breed; Home: Pine Vale
Ability Scores: STR 15 (+1), INT 14* (+1), WIS 13 (0), DEX 15 (+1), CON 12 (0), CHA 8 (0)
(* = "prime requisite" choice for the Survivor, which bumped it up to 14 automatically; was a 13 prior with no modifier)
Hit Points: 13; System Strain: Max of 12; Max Ready Encumbrance: 7-1/2; Max Carry Encumbrance: 15
Attack Bonus: +1; Saving Throws: Physical Effect 12, Mental Effect 12, Evasion 12 (base 14), Tech 14, Luck 13
Equipment: Clean Rations x6, Backpack (TL 4), Medkit, Type A Power Cell
Weapons and Armor:
* Knife: +2, d4+1 dmg, 6/9 meters
* Thermal Pistol: +3, 2d6+1 dmg, 25/50 meters, ammo 5
* Hide Armor: AC 6, Enc 1
Skills: Artist/Singer 0, Combat/Energy 0, Combat/Primitive 0, Culture/Literacy 0, Culture/Enclave 0, History 0, Perception 0, Stealth 0, Survival 1, Tech/Medical 0
Mutations and Stigmata
* Stigmata = fox woman
* Danger Sense: Can't be surprised, +2 to Evasion saving throw
* Vengeful: Attack last foe to injure her unless she saves with Mental Effect or takes 1 System Strain
* Night Vision: Can see up to 50 meters with at least a candle-flame of light
* Animalistic Appearance: -2 to social skill checks with strangers
- Game Sessions -
Session Zero: Adventurer
Session One: Wild Card
Session Two: Interference
Buuuuuut, to compensate for this, I've got something I want to share for that post-apocalyptic story itch. Late last year I had been doing a solitaire tabletop RPG campaign. Basically acting as both the Game Master and a player, distancing myself from metagaming as the player role and randomizing stuff with tables and a d6 "oracle". I've been using them as a sort of writing experiment for a sci-fantasy character of mine, Dana the Apocalypse Fox.
There's no much left of my prior sessions on r/Solo_Roleplaying, but I've decided to pick things back up. From what notes and memories I have of the first adventure, I've been trying to write them into a first-person novelette. But for now, I've picked up a new game to use and have the first session complete. Rather than merely posting the links from my Reddit posts, I'm deciding to host the session write-ups here.
The game used is Other Dust, an Old School Renaissance game that emulates TSR's Gamma World with the nuances of AD&D. I previously used Savage Worlds Adventure Edition, but some elements of play didn't rub me the right way in the prior adventure. I'll be hosting the house rules and Dana's current stat blocks in spoilers below. Feel free to comment with any questions, comments or concerns!
- House Rules -
Using card-based initiative a la Savage Worlds for combat. Cards are drawn for Dana, any allies, groups of enemies, and notable enemies separately and for every round of combat. 2 is the lowest initiative, while Ace is the highest. A Joker lets the user act when they desire, and adds +2 to all d20 rolls for that round. The deck is not shuffled unless a) the combat ends or b) the round after a Joker is drawn ends.
Dana will start at 2nd Level. She doesn't gain XP per session as suggested, but instead will accumulate it through defeating (killing or subduing) foes, or donating salvaged items. Enemies award XP akin to Basic Fantasy RPG's rules on page 42, based on their Hit Dice. Foes with notable powers add the “Special Ability Bonus” to XP earned, but not all powers add this bonus. Donated salvage can only be turned in at settlements, and the amount of XP granted can vary; otherwise it is gained on a 1-for-1 ratio with its barter value.
Supported house rule suggestions are taken from Other Dust. Dana had started with two mutations chosen by me, with their effects and flaws picked instead of randomized. Any allied NPCs I concoct can do the same; those who don't have mutations instead gain 4 points to distribute to their ability scores. The other house rule used was the exchange of two random loot rolls for one piece of loot chosen. As a shovel and utility tarp seem useless from my random rolls, I decided to cheese it and remove them for a special starting weapon (see below). Her two random items gained are d4+1 clean rations (rolled 3), and a medkit (which is something I'd hoped for).
Speaking of items, I decided to give Dana a Thermal Pistol and two Type A Power Cells to power and shoot it. To compensate for the potent plasma pistol I swapped her starting Sword with a Knife. Decided it would make more sense to let her have access to her signature blaster, as she'd started past 1st Level.
Her smartphone is on the fritz for now, and I'm planning on creating them as unique items. Having access to the remnants of the internet could be a bit powerful anyway, which was something her phone could do back in Savage Worlds Adventure Edition. Not totally sure if something like a smartphone already exists in Other Dust, I'm not totally familiar with the equipment.
I'll be using a simple oracle based on the d6, along with random charts from Other Dust. On the d6 – 1 is a “No, and”; 2 is “No”; 3 is “No, but”; 4 is “Yes, but”, 5 is “Yes”, and 6 is “Yes, and”.
- Dana's Stats (Session One) -
Dana Cooper, Survivor / 2
Background: Hunter; Training: Last of the Breed; Home: Pine Vale
Ability Scores: STR 15 (+1), INT 14* (+1), WIS 13 (0), DEX 15 (+1), CON 12 (0), CHA 8 (0)
(* = "prime requisite" choice for the Survivor, which bumped it up to 14 automatically; was a 13 prior with no modifier)
Hit Points: 13; System Strain: Max of 12; Max Ready Encumbrance: 7-1/2; Max Carry Encumbrance: 15
Attack Bonus: +1; Saving Throws: Physical Effect 12, Mental Effect 12, Evasion 12 (base 14), Tech 14, Luck 13
Equipment: Clean Rations x6, Backpack (TL 4), Medkit, Type A Power Cell
Weapons and Armor:
* Knife: +2, d4+1 dmg, 6/9 meters
* Thermal Pistol: +3, 2d6+1 dmg, 25/50 meters, ammo 5
* Hide Armor: AC 6, Enc 1
Skills: Artist/Singer 0, Combat/Energy 0, Combat/Primitive 0, Culture/Literacy 0, Culture/Enclave 0, History 0, Perception 0, Stealth 0, Survival 1, Tech/Medical 0
Mutations and Stigmata
* Stigmata = fox woman
* Danger Sense: Can't be surprised, +2 to Evasion saving throw
* Vengeful: Attack last foe to injure her unless she saves with Mental Effect or takes 1 System Strain
* Night Vision: Can see up to 50 meters with at least a candle-flame of light
* Animalistic Appearance: -2 to social skill checks with strangers
- Game Sessions -
Session Zero: Adventurer
Session One: Wild Card
Session Two: Interference
Session One: Wild Card
Saturday, September 29th, 2096. It had been weeks since that fateful date of September 6th, one of the longest days of Dana's life. What started as her friend, Tom “Prowler” Kruger, disturbing her at her den-like shack turned into a bloodbath. Infiltrating a club in the remnants of Lock City, she faced her fears and slew the werewolf staff of the Predator's Den. The injuries she and Prowler sustained were brutal, but they survived thanks to the intervention of an allied Northern Lights officer. Only the salvaged pre-fall meds could keep the vixen and her wayward addict alive, after the abuse they suffered at the hands of Brandy the Alpha Bitch and her pack.
But the event changed Tom for the better. In the weeks following release from the Lock City Clinic, he sought professional help for his drug addictions, and he begged his way back into his caravan job from earlier that year. And for Dana, her atavistic terror toward werewolves was quelled. Just one more thing the once-cloistered parahuman became jaded toward. Despite this, Tom would leave his ravaged apartment behind and set out for his job, with a somber yet hopeful farewell from Dana.
And with the departure of her first friend in the Great Forest of Western New York, the strange dreams that Dana started having since that year turned into night terrors. Only the loss of her home and her surrogate father had produced such terrifying nightmares prior, in the dead of 2096's winter. She dreamed she was still at her humble cabin in the woods, but that she'd known Tom all her life. But in each of those dreams, something terrible happened that involved his demise. Death by overdose, death by being riddled with bullets like her father... even death by being melted into a puddle of goo, by Dana's own blaster-wielding hand.
The pain in her heart only worsened as the bad dreams continued. Staggering her way back to Lock City one day, she faced the new owners of the Predator's Den, now called Ricky's Place. Consulting her new friend Jude, of whom she'd gained access to the employees-only parts of the ex-Den (and of whom she'd saved from Brandy's murderous wrath), the two made an arrangement to alleviate the great melancholy the huntress faced.
Dana, an apt singer, performed with a cover band at the Place nights prior to September 29th. What Jude didn't tell Dana, however, was that she'd arranged a secret spotter from Lock City's local radio station, WKRD. Thanks to the efforts of the local tech cult, Wild Kard Radio entertained and informed the survivors of the apocalypse all across the WNY area. Imagine Dana's surprise as, tuning into the station at her den on a hesitant night, that she heard the after-hours DJ invite her across the airwaves to the station! Thus the formal invite from a courier, written on salvaged paper, came of no surprise the following morning.
And thus Dana's latest adventure, set on a near-future Earth after the paranormal Moon Fall apocalypse, would begin that early morn...
Looking over the invitation once more, Dana ponders the information given. Was any sort of compensation arranged for the meetup? YES. Would it be something related to her profession as an adventurer? NO, AND it wasn't much; just some basic trade goods and a coupon to Reid's III, the only fast food joint left in Lock City after the fall. The biggest perk seemed to be publicity; not everyone knew of Dana's escapades and motives, after all.
The two biggest things that stood out, however? Dana would be on-air with the popular daytime shock jock, the self-titled Trashman. On top of that, there was a favor to ask in exchange for some under-the-counter assistance. Did the invite make any mention of this favor? NO. Putting on a brave face, the young fox-woman pushed herself past the doors of the radio station. Is there any active guard that intercepts her? YES.
A local carrying a submachine gun perks up as Dana arrives, raising his automatic weapon toward her. After a tense moment or two he lowers the barrel. “Dana the Apocalypse Fox, right?” the older man inquires, stroking his mustache. “Forgive the gun. Not everyone who tries to get in here's on the VIP list”.
“None taken”, Dana shrugs. “It's more than just crazed fans trying to muscle their way in, I'd wager?”
“Yeah”, the guard grimaces. “I'll let the Trashman know you're here. Lemme hit the intercom”. Stepping aside to inform the radio personality, the guard leaves Dana in the lobby to her lonesome. A minute or so later and she's ushered upstairs.
Apparently the station doubles as a home for both disc jockeys and the tech cultists running the show. Moved to a lounge the guard returns to his duties; is the Trashman already there? YES, BUT he's distracted, chatting up a dark-skinned woman with his usual boisterous voice. The background music is also loud, annoying Dana's sensitive ears.
Is the loudmouth talking directly about anything important to Dana? NO, AND it doesn't paint a pleasant picture of the shock jock. “Sherrie”, he hollers, “If those dumb fucks at the Scholars' place don't get their rears in gear, I'm sending Bobby with that Uzi and I'll make them get it fixed! Fucking hell, of all days for the station to be fucking--”
Sherrie Lynne, the Trashman's calmer co-host and a veritable foil, looks over the short man's flustered face with indifference. “My guy”, she shrugs, “The station's still broadcasting. We'll cross the bridge when we come to it. And who knows why the song files are getting corrupted? Could be it, you know, that it's a desktop that's over forty years old?”
“And a fucking miracle it does work”, the Trash groans. “Fucking wizards, those cultists. Too bad they've been sending twats that'd barely do birthday parties back when!”
“Besides that”, Sherrie sighs, glancing to the side. “Our guest's already here. She's been sitting at that love seat of yours, even so patient”.
Acknowledged, Dana raises a hand in greeting. “Yo”.
The Trashman then proceeds to rattle off further phrases not safe for work, and extends his rough and hairy hand to shake with Dana's. “Blimey”, he grins in spite of himself, “Why in the hell didn't ya tell me you were here? Christ on a cracker, I don't mean to be a shitty host. Welcome to the humble home of the Trashman, the one and only! To say nothing of my better half, of course. Dana my girl, it's a pleasure to meet your furry ass”. A brief pause. “No slurs intended!”
“Again, none taken”, Dana chuckles. “I'm just happy to be here. Jude really outfoxed me with that arrangement. But uh, y'got anything to drink? If we're going on-air, I'll need something to keep my voice going”.
“Of course, of course!” The Trashman heads off to the fridge in the corner of the dimly-lit lounge; but Dana's Perception roll of 5 doesn't let her notice his limp (DC 6). “What'll it be, Dana? Fireball? Crown? Budweiser?”
“Stardust”, the fox smirks. “It's a little early to hit the sauce, but my drug of choice is the best damn cola to survive the Moon Fall. Barring that, anything with caffeine”.
Sherrie nods. “A good choice; better than being hammered before all of Niagara County. Trashy, we got that?”
NO, BUT... “Will one of these Faygo drinks do it for you? We've got this Moon Mist kind; it says it's got caff?”
“It'll do”, Dana nods. “How soon are we going on the air? And what about this favor you want from me?”
“In due time”, Sherrie shrugs. “This favor of mine is mostly my idea. Mostly. But the Trashman wants to bring it up on-air”.
Dana's Culture / Enclave comes up an 8, meeting the intended DC. It's a lesser-known fact that Sherrie has a veritable web of information, but one can reason that the daily scoop on current events has to come from somewhere. Playing off this educated guess Dana asks, “There's something you want me to find out, right? I'm hoping it's up my alley?”
Sherrie smiles in pleasant surprise. “A smart survivor; I like that”, she replies. “Word on the street is that you're less of a merc, and more of a monster hunter. There's something I want to know. I don't know if you can find it, but there's this urban legend about the city. It's been around for years, even before I was born. But this year it's been talked about a lot more than usual”.
The Trashman, now passing the cool canned beverage over to Dana, shakes his head at Sherrie. “I'm trying to tell you, that Slenderman twat ain't real”.
Sherrie shakes her head back. “I've still got that reward for proof he might be”, she scoffs. “Why else would that faceless freak be on the old internet so much? But that's beside the point. No, Dana, this legend is an entity but she might be on our side. Maybe. Have you ever heard of the Alley Cat?”
Dana's Culture / Enclave comes up an 8 again, and once more meets my set DC. “That old legend? Of course”, she responds, cracking open the decades-old can. “The were-cat than never grew up, pale as an albino but with limbs like a tabby cat. A chosen child of Bast; the mistress of murdering muggers, the queen of cat-scratch fever. If you hear her yowl in the pale of a full moon, feral cats will adore you and you'll find some good salvage. But if it's under a new moon, you're destined to meet her in the dead of night... and will be found dead by daylight yourself”.
“Damn, girl”, the Trashman remarks. “Save some of that stuff for my show! You sure know your shit though. Good to know!”
“My thoughts exactly”, Sherrie chuckles. “Dana, I want to know if the Alley Cat is real. It's been a pet project of mine all year, no pun intended. With the renewed Alley Cat craze, people want to know if she's on our side or not. Or he. Or they”.
She sips some coffee from an old 'I Love New York' mug, clearing her throat. “Pronouns aside, informants could swear on a stack of bibles that they've seen her. One of the guests I'm bringing onto the Midnight Thunder tonight swears he's been rescued by the Alley Cat, as of a few days ago”.
Dana shrugs, “So how can I, a lowly vixen, have a means to find her? Even though someone must've tried, from all these years she's been thought to exist?”
Sherrie winks. “That'll be our little secret, and something we'll discuss after the show. Trashy, let's get that intern of ours a break. He's still pretty awkward over the air”.
“Right, right”, the Trashman grins. “I'll give you a peek at the old playbook for my guests, Dana. Give it about fifteen; if you're ready by then we'll wing the rest. That sound good?”
“10-4”, Dana grins. “Trust me, I've winged it for almost a year now and I've made it this far. What's the worst that could happen?”
Saturday, September 29th, 2096. It had been weeks since that fateful date of September 6th, one of the longest days of Dana's life. What started as her friend, Tom “Prowler” Kruger, disturbing her at her den-like shack turned into a bloodbath. Infiltrating a club in the remnants of Lock City, she faced her fears and slew the werewolf staff of the Predator's Den. The injuries she and Prowler sustained were brutal, but they survived thanks to the intervention of an allied Northern Lights officer. Only the salvaged pre-fall meds could keep the vixen and her wayward addict alive, after the abuse they suffered at the hands of Brandy the Alpha Bitch and her pack.
But the event changed Tom for the better. In the weeks following release from the Lock City Clinic, he sought professional help for his drug addictions, and he begged his way back into his caravan job from earlier that year. And for Dana, her atavistic terror toward werewolves was quelled. Just one more thing the once-cloistered parahuman became jaded toward. Despite this, Tom would leave his ravaged apartment behind and set out for his job, with a somber yet hopeful farewell from Dana.
And with the departure of her first friend in the Great Forest of Western New York, the strange dreams that Dana started having since that year turned into night terrors. Only the loss of her home and her surrogate father had produced such terrifying nightmares prior, in the dead of 2096's winter. She dreamed she was still at her humble cabin in the woods, but that she'd known Tom all her life. But in each of those dreams, something terrible happened that involved his demise. Death by overdose, death by being riddled with bullets like her father... even death by being melted into a puddle of goo, by Dana's own blaster-wielding hand.
The pain in her heart only worsened as the bad dreams continued. Staggering her way back to Lock City one day, she faced the new owners of the Predator's Den, now called Ricky's Place. Consulting her new friend Jude, of whom she'd gained access to the employees-only parts of the ex-Den (and of whom she'd saved from Brandy's murderous wrath), the two made an arrangement to alleviate the great melancholy the huntress faced.
Dana, an apt singer, performed with a cover band at the Place nights prior to September 29th. What Jude didn't tell Dana, however, was that she'd arranged a secret spotter from Lock City's local radio station, WKRD. Thanks to the efforts of the local tech cult, Wild Kard Radio entertained and informed the survivors of the apocalypse all across the WNY area. Imagine Dana's surprise as, tuning into the station at her den on a hesitant night, that she heard the after-hours DJ invite her across the airwaves to the station! Thus the formal invite from a courier, written on salvaged paper, came of no surprise the following morning.
And thus Dana's latest adventure, set on a near-future Earth after the paranormal Moon Fall apocalypse, would begin that early morn...
Looking over the invitation once more, Dana ponders the information given. Was any sort of compensation arranged for the meetup? YES. Would it be something related to her profession as an adventurer? NO, AND it wasn't much; just some basic trade goods and a coupon to Reid's III, the only fast food joint left in Lock City after the fall. The biggest perk seemed to be publicity; not everyone knew of Dana's escapades and motives, after all.
The two biggest things that stood out, however? Dana would be on-air with the popular daytime shock jock, the self-titled Trashman. On top of that, there was a favor to ask in exchange for some under-the-counter assistance. Did the invite make any mention of this favor? NO. Putting on a brave face, the young fox-woman pushed herself past the doors of the radio station. Is there any active guard that intercepts her? YES.
A local carrying a submachine gun perks up as Dana arrives, raising his automatic weapon toward her. After a tense moment or two he lowers the barrel. “Dana the Apocalypse Fox, right?” the older man inquires, stroking his mustache. “Forgive the gun. Not everyone who tries to get in here's on the VIP list”.
“None taken”, Dana shrugs. “It's more than just crazed fans trying to muscle their way in, I'd wager?”
“Yeah”, the guard grimaces. “I'll let the Trashman know you're here. Lemme hit the intercom”. Stepping aside to inform the radio personality, the guard leaves Dana in the lobby to her lonesome. A minute or so later and she's ushered upstairs.
Apparently the station doubles as a home for both disc jockeys and the tech cultists running the show. Moved to a lounge the guard returns to his duties; is the Trashman already there? YES, BUT he's distracted, chatting up a dark-skinned woman with his usual boisterous voice. The background music is also loud, annoying Dana's sensitive ears.
Is the loudmouth talking directly about anything important to Dana? NO, AND it doesn't paint a pleasant picture of the shock jock. “Sherrie”, he hollers, “If those dumb fucks at the Scholars' place don't get their rears in gear, I'm sending Bobby with that Uzi and I'll make them get it fixed! Fucking hell, of all days for the station to be fucking--”
Sherrie Lynne, the Trashman's calmer co-host and a veritable foil, looks over the short man's flustered face with indifference. “My guy”, she shrugs, “The station's still broadcasting. We'll cross the bridge when we come to it. And who knows why the song files are getting corrupted? Could be it, you know, that it's a desktop that's over forty years old?”
“And a fucking miracle it does work”, the Trash groans. “Fucking wizards, those cultists. Too bad they've been sending twats that'd barely do birthday parties back when!”
“Besides that”, Sherrie sighs, glancing to the side. “Our guest's already here. She's been sitting at that love seat of yours, even so patient”.
Acknowledged, Dana raises a hand in greeting. “Yo”.
The Trashman then proceeds to rattle off further phrases not safe for work, and extends his rough and hairy hand to shake with Dana's. “Blimey”, he grins in spite of himself, “Why in the hell didn't ya tell me you were here? Christ on a cracker, I don't mean to be a shitty host. Welcome to the humble home of the Trashman, the one and only! To say nothing of my better half, of course. Dana my girl, it's a pleasure to meet your furry ass”. A brief pause. “No slurs intended!”
“Again, none taken”, Dana chuckles. “I'm just happy to be here. Jude really outfoxed me with that arrangement. But uh, y'got anything to drink? If we're going on-air, I'll need something to keep my voice going”.
“Of course, of course!” The Trashman heads off to the fridge in the corner of the dimly-lit lounge; but Dana's Perception roll of 5 doesn't let her notice his limp (DC 6). “What'll it be, Dana? Fireball? Crown? Budweiser?”
“Stardust”, the fox smirks. “It's a little early to hit the sauce, but my drug of choice is the best damn cola to survive the Moon Fall. Barring that, anything with caffeine”.
Sherrie nods. “A good choice; better than being hammered before all of Niagara County. Trashy, we got that?”
NO, BUT... “Will one of these Faygo drinks do it for you? We've got this Moon Mist kind; it says it's got caff?”
“It'll do”, Dana nods. “How soon are we going on the air? And what about this favor you want from me?”
“In due time”, Sherrie shrugs. “This favor of mine is mostly my idea. Mostly. But the Trashman wants to bring it up on-air”.
Dana's Culture / Enclave comes up an 8, meeting the intended DC. It's a lesser-known fact that Sherrie has a veritable web of information, but one can reason that the daily scoop on current events has to come from somewhere. Playing off this educated guess Dana asks, “There's something you want me to find out, right? I'm hoping it's up my alley?”
Sherrie smiles in pleasant surprise. “A smart survivor; I like that”, she replies. “Word on the street is that you're less of a merc, and more of a monster hunter. There's something I want to know. I don't know if you can find it, but there's this urban legend about the city. It's been around for years, even before I was born. But this year it's been talked about a lot more than usual”.
The Trashman, now passing the cool canned beverage over to Dana, shakes his head at Sherrie. “I'm trying to tell you, that Slenderman twat ain't real”.
Sherrie shakes her head back. “I've still got that reward for proof he might be”, she scoffs. “Why else would that faceless freak be on the old internet so much? But that's beside the point. No, Dana, this legend is an entity but she might be on our side. Maybe. Have you ever heard of the Alley Cat?”
Dana's Culture / Enclave comes up an 8 again, and once more meets my set DC. “That old legend? Of course”, she responds, cracking open the decades-old can. “The were-cat than never grew up, pale as an albino but with limbs like a tabby cat. A chosen child of Bast; the mistress of murdering muggers, the queen of cat-scratch fever. If you hear her yowl in the pale of a full moon, feral cats will adore you and you'll find some good salvage. But if it's under a new moon, you're destined to meet her in the dead of night... and will be found dead by daylight yourself”.
“Damn, girl”, the Trashman remarks. “Save some of that stuff for my show! You sure know your shit though. Good to know!”
“My thoughts exactly”, Sherrie chuckles. “Dana, I want to know if the Alley Cat is real. It's been a pet project of mine all year, no pun intended. With the renewed Alley Cat craze, people want to know if she's on our side or not. Or he. Or they”.
She sips some coffee from an old 'I Love New York' mug, clearing her throat. “Pronouns aside, informants could swear on a stack of bibles that they've seen her. One of the guests I'm bringing onto the Midnight Thunder tonight swears he's been rescued by the Alley Cat, as of a few days ago”.
Dana shrugs, “So how can I, a lowly vixen, have a means to find her? Even though someone must've tried, from all these years she's been thought to exist?”
Sherrie winks. “That'll be our little secret, and something we'll discuss after the show. Trashy, let's get that intern of ours a break. He's still pretty awkward over the air”.
“Right, right”, the Trashman grins. “I'll give you a peek at the old playbook for my guests, Dana. Give it about fifteen; if you're ready by then we'll wing the rest. That sound good?”
“10-4”, Dana grins. “Trust me, I've winged it for almost a year now and I've made it this far. What's the worst that could happen?”
Session Zero: Adventurer
So there's this solo journaling game I'd taken interest in from r/Solo_Roleplaying months ago, called The Adventurer. I'd wanted to play it with my avatar character Raziya, but figured it'd be a good backstory for Dana. As such, this'll serve as a "Session 0".
~~~~~~~
January 15th, 2096
Prologue: No cards drawn
He's dead. Ye gods, my father is dead. I still haven't come to terms with what happened, and it all happened so fast. Dad had been on-edge these last few days, and he told me to keep Greased Lightning holstered on my hip as often as I could. I now understand why he wanted this. I assumed there was something up at his job, the one he leaves the cabin for days on end to do.
I'm an adult now, nineteen years old, and I have no choice but to go out into the overgrown wasteland that dad shielded me from. I never quite felt like an adult, but after today I have no choice. I saw the people barging in shoot him dead. I ran screaming, attack dogs chasing me. I didn't get far before I had to open fire on them. My gods... the smell of ozone and burned flesh, the blood on my limbs from their teeth, the squelching of molten flesh sloughing from their dying bodies. I've never used my blaster this close before, but the things it can do to people... I nearly threw up on the spot.
And that was before I melted the gunman's face off. Well, there was a liquefied stump left of his neck; the sheer heat of the plasma made his head explode. I lost my breakfast after seeing what it did to the bastard. I sat there for a while after the hitman's corpse hit the snow, bleeding and sobbing. I don't know how I could get up and treat my wounds, especially with my slain father's body laying there in a pool of blood, peppered with bullets. Probably the cold.
The only parent I have left was his ex, and I don't even know where she lives. All I know is that there's this settlement they talked about before. Lock City. Could there even be a city left in this day and age? I don't have a choice but to find out. Someone I'm sane, but I don't think that'll last. I grabbed his winter coat and his boots, among other goods I could stuff into a backpack. I also grabbed our old calender, so I can tell how many days have passed.
I'm setting out into the overgrown apocalypse around me. Sekhmet, Lugh, give me the strength to soldier on. I'm going to need it.
January 16th, 2096
Coastline; a vision of yourself; a lone traveler; a map
Am I going to make entries every day? Never really kept a journal outside of my early teens. Doesn't help that, according to my dad, I developed a lot faster than most kids. I'm still not sure what he meant; I don't have any memories beyond being twelve. Weird.
Anyway, here I am at the edge of the great Erie Canal. This was something people created many, many years ago. To think it extends this far is incredible, let alone seeing the dams of metal! I think when I finally reach Lock City, I'll be amazed even to see the ruins. I've never seen such marvels of the old world before. Well, assuming I'll live that long. At least I've got my winter pelt; the thick coat and boots help too. My fingers and toes get cold real easy, which is rough when both are bare most of a given year.
I'd always heard terrible things about terrible people from dad. Raiders, slavers, gangers, hitmen, cannibals and cultists. If not for his ex's point of view, I would've thought everyone in the world would be out to get me. After all, I'd only know them, and the guy who murdered my father. But somehow, there was this older guy with one of those two-handed, bullet-shooting guns out and about. Called himself a scavenger, though he was mainly hunting for his little settlement. He was caught off-guard when I trudged out into the clearing, pointing his weapon at me for a second. I cried out in terror, scrambling for my blaster. I was surprised that he didn't shoot, and I was glad I didn't have to melt holes into him either.
The man's name was Tim. After he realized I was a person and not a monster, he beckoned me closer and lowered his weapon. I think he called it a shotgun. He'd never seen a gun like mine, or even that such weapons still worked. Most of how I said it worked went over his head, but c'mon. How does someone not know what plasma pinch, electromagnetism and a coilgun are? But he understood the whole “point at something you want dead, pull trigger, hope you hit and turn flesh into ectoplasmic goo” thing pretty well. His advice was that I get a gun like his: bullets were a lot easier to come by than power cells and plasma carts, and I didn't even have to lead the shot.
He let me try his shotgun out. My word, my ears hurt and I nearly dropped the thing after pulling the trigger! I'm not a strong fox, even I'm sure and sugar a fast one. Sure as sugar... my dad's ex, Kathy, used to say that. Less gross and more polite that “sure as shit”, I'm certain.
After our meeting, Tim let me have some of his excess rations. He felt bad for me, after I told him what happened. Using this very journal and this pen, he gave me instructions on how to get back home to his settlement. He called it Pine Vale, and it wasn't far from Lock City. Still a ways away, but at least I had an idea of how to get there. He advised against the city though, saying that I couldn't get far unless I had money or trade goods. I have neither. But he said he'd put in a good word at Pine Vale if I lived that long. I didn't go with him as he suggested, but I kept his advice in mind.
One last thing. As I expected, I had a nightmare about what happened yesterday. I woke up screaming, and broke down in tears again. But somehow, as I trudged out of that lean-to I built, it dawned on me. I lived. Somehow, someway, I'd survived a hit on me and my dad. Somehow, someway, I didn't freeze to death out here, or get eaten by monsters. Or even eaten by raiders. I lived. I fucking LIVED.
In the memory of my dad, Horatio Cooper, I swear I'll make it work. By my lucky stars. So help me Sekhmet, Lugh, Athena, Jesus, Flying Spaghetti Monster, and anyone else who will fucking listen. I will live. I will fucking live. Slowly yet surely, I'll stop being the scared, heartbroken little fox I'd become just yesterday.
I, uh, don't usually drop F-bombs as often as that. I hope this doesn't become a habit.
January 21st, 2096
Place of worship; lost your supplies; a new food; an ancient evil
Oh gods. Oh gods. I had to kill again. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had eaten the last of my rations this morning, and I needed to find something to eat. I don't know how well I could hunt with my blaster, and I was kicking myself for forgetting to grab my dad's laser rifle back home. Not that I knew his lock-down combination, nor the safe code for his spare laser batteries. At this point, the weapon's just salvage for anyone who happens upon his
I had to stop there. I'm still shook up after what happened. I had made my way to an old church, hoping I could meet some squatters or religious folk. I'd steal from them if I had to, but I hoped I wouldn't have to. What I met with wasn't Christian, despite the stone cross on the front of the building. Some kind of cult. I walked in on them loafing around, but there was clearly a sacrificed person on a table. I gasped at the horror, and one of them reached for his gun.
My impulses got the better of me. No way this guy wouldn't shoot me, unlike Tim. Even if just a show of muscle, I couldn't wind up like that dead person on the table. I cleared pleather and opened fire. The guy's chest exploded open, and the other cultists retaliated. I ducked for cover, trying to remember what dad taught me about gunfights. I peeked around the entrance, shooting wild. There were four of them total, and one had his arm melted from the shoulder at the suppressive fire. When the third assailant made it to me with a big knife, I killed him just as horribly. I got sick again when his innards spilled, but somehow I didn't barf.
I wrote there were four of them, but only three attacked. The last one cowered in the corner when I staggered inside, seeing the carnage I dealt. The one with his half-melted arm on the ground tried to scramble for the first one's pistol. I closed my eyes and shot for his head, and his life ended in a dampened crack and a smell of ozone.
The remaining cultist begged for his life as I stumbled toward him. Maybe he saw the energy weapon shaking in my hand. But he didn't know what I saw about a week ago. How could he understand when, vision blurring and eyes burning, I told him to take what he had and run? Sure, he or his friends did horrible things to that mangled person on the table. But I couldn't kill him. He was as petrified as I was, when that hitman came and took my father and my safe lifestyle from me.
I kept my plasma gun trained on him, but I let him live. He took some supplies and left. He could've tried to shoot me with that bullet-shooting pistol, but he didn't. He just took it from his dead friend, and with a heavy heart to match mine, marched out into the cold.
When I had time to put two and two together in the bloodstained church, I figured out who they were sacrificing to. This cult was dedicated to Satan, the evil god of the bible. Most people worshiping the God of the bible don't see Satan as a god, but he may as well be. Not every god is good, after all. Only the “new age bullshit”, as dad would've called his ex's composite religion, could've informed me of deities both pagan and modern.
I took what I could from the fridge, and found some old beverage in a can. I didn't want to trust something that was made about forty years ago, but if they were gonna drink it, why not? I cracked open that can of Stardust Cola... and I was hooked. Dad had made homemade cola before but my various gods, this stuff was good! I hoped the caffeine would keep me awake better. I hoped it would keep me from dozing off so soon, and avoid another nightmare.
I was wrong. But hey, it was tasty. If I live long enough to make it to Lock City or Pine Vale, I hope I can trade for more of this stuff. Stardust Cola... delicious.
January 27th, 2096
A city; lost on way; a toy; a new / old love
(normally drew a 2 for the Clubs, “a new / old foe”; there's no 1 in a deck of cards, and I felt this would make more sense)
If I had the strength to, I would've written this days ago. But I didn't. I couldn't. I had nearly succumbed to the harshest day this winter, and I needed to save my strength. I had gotten way, way lost and everything was a maze of trees, ruined streets and snow.
I thought I was going to die. I really, truly thought I was going to die. I didn't even get a message from any of my gods. I didn't see the Grim Reaper, of whom I'm sure will smell of that electric reek my blaster makes when it kills someone.
No, after blacking out with a face full of snow, I awoke in a tent. Someone was sure that some druggie had hauled in a corpse just waiting to happen. I guess that addict overheard, for he poked in his greasy, dark-haired head into the tent, a mock-serious tone on his voice. That's when I saw him: the guy who saved my life.
His name is Tom. He told me he was having a smoke break at the time, though he smelt more like a skunk than like old tobacco. Only my weapon kept my hands warm in that deathly cold, and only because the plastic casing was warm while turned on. Even so I had to pass the blaster between my hands, because my gloves just weren't cutting it.
Tom's a member of this trade caravan. They bring useful supplies and different old-world knick-knacks all across this region, all stuff people would trade for. They even have old coins that people use to seal the deal, covering a difference in bartered goods in big settlements. The guy stayed by my side as I rested in bed. Heck, he wouldn't let me get up from the bed until he and their medic thought I was well enough. Chicken noodle soup filled my belly in the meantime. I love chicken, so I didn't complain, but the lack of activity drove me nuts.
All the while, I was still having those nightmares. They weren't as consistent as they were days after my exodus, but I still got them. I was still waking up in the dead of night, screaming and crying. The medic said I might have developed something called PTSD. It meant some things might hurt my mind worse than others. Told me to watch out for “trigger warnings”, if I developed any. All I know is that their one dog scared me. It was a friendly dog, more curious at seeing a fox girl than anything. But when she barreled toward me with a curious bark, I panicked. She was on top of me, trying to lick my face, and I hit the poor thing in the face.
Her owner wasn't super angry with me after I pummeled his pet. Upset for hitting his companion, yes, but he cooled off after the doctor told him what happened to me. After all, I was livid even after they got Sandra Dee off of me. Poor thing! I was shaking even giving her treats as an apology for how I reacted. Am I going to be scared of dogs until I die? Or even after?
All I know is, Tom tried to have me lighten up. He offered his drug to me. That skunk-smelling stuff that he called weed, wrapped in paper like an old cigarette. I smoked with him, or tried to. That stuff hurt my lungs. He told me I had to keep it inside to get high and feel better, but I didn't want to. So instead of “toking” with him, he gave me something else to calm me down. An old stuffed animal, one of those toys from before the fall. It was a little cat.
I felt bad. It meant whoever owned this little cat in the past was long dead, and probably a child. But looking at the little white plushie, its plastic eyes staring back at me, and its tattered fluff exterior soothing in my paws... I couldn't pass up this gift. The toy must've made a child happy back when, and I couldn't just let her rot away without an owner. I named her Sophie, and I slept with her in my hands last night.
And somehow? I didn't have a nightmare. I can barely remember the dream, but I slept soundly. And a good thing too... today, we're at Lock City. Today, I'm going to need all my strength to try and find Kathy, or to try and get a home. Something important.
Tom said his farewells, as did everyone else on the caravan, and we went our separate ways. They told me not to visit the “dead streets”, parts of Lock City that weren't lived in. I don't know what lies ahead, but I hope for the best. It's almost noon, so I'm going to put you away in my backpack and hope for the best.
January 28th, 2096
Ghost town / village; taken in by strangers; a curse or spell; a tyrant king
Against my better judgment, I decided to explore the dead streets. No one let me stay with them in Lock City, and I couldn't let myself die of the cold. Not after it nearly happened already. People in the city weren't nearly as nice as those I'd met. Not everyone was an asshole, but most were. They called me things like “furry”, and at least one of them pointed a gun at me. And those are just the jerks that gave me the time of day! I'm starting to think Tim was right about Pine Vale. Hope he lived long enough to get back home, and told people about me like he said he would.
I learned that the mayor of this big settlement, someone named Kowalski, sold out the city to some police force from Canada called Northern Lights. Tom didn't trust them, and had warned me about the “pigs” and the “fascists” among them. None of them were pig-people, and what the fuck is a fascist? I guess it's not important, any of them I met also ignored me. They had some serious firepower though; black guns with big magazines, and body armor that people say can stop bullets. I don't know how thick clothing can stop a bullet, but I'm sure it couldn't stop my plasma, or even a laser. Good thing I didn't need to find out. Besides, even if I did, more would probably show up and fill me with holes.
Somehow I found some folks in the dead streets that didn't try to hurt me. An older couple, two men, let me stay with them tonight. I had nothing to offer them, but one of them said I could do some chores to earn my keep for the night. So I did. It's not like I didn't do chores around the house for dad. The guy that offered, who was the less-stronger-looking one, was impressed by my cleaning.
The stronger-looking guy, somehow, was impressed by how much I knew about the old gods. He was faithful to one of the new gods, one I'd never heard of. Someone called RNGesus, of whom a “tech cult” outside of Lock City worshiped. Is this RNGesus an aspect of this Jesus guy I've heard of? Maybe. All he knows is that I should bring in some of my technology to him, especially my energy weapon. Even if I didn't sell them any of it, they might arrange to give me some goods in return. Heck, maybe I could even help them with a technical issue for money or barter goods?
His cult is called the “Scholars of the Superhighway”. Apparently there's this invisible world called the Internet, where people could connect themselves to others. Dad referenced it before, with some world-related stuff. It dawns on me that he might've mentioned the Scholars before too, but I can't remember how or when. All I know is, I can't rely on charity forever. I need to meet these Scholars and get in their good graces. With the stronger husband backing me up (name's Gregory Stone, lest I forget), I'm sure I can find something of use from this tech cult. Sure hope so!
But the Scholars aren't the first faction dad had ever mentioned, now that I'm thinking on it. He talked about the North Star Rangers the most though. An old military branch that acted quick after the apocalypse, pulling people together to keep others safe from monsters. From what I understand, Northern Lights is supposed to do the same, as well as be police. But they also don't protect everyone, like the Rangers did. No, they only look out for people who hired them, and unlike the Rangers they didn't forge or accept donations. Apparently the Lights are paid regularly for their protection?
All I know is, it's because of the Rangers that dad got me Greased Lightning back when. This blaster of mine is a pre-fall device that the US Armed Forces developed, with the help of an old company called Horizon Electronics. Was one of the last energy weapons they made before the Moon Fall. Maybe the Scholars will know more? Because it packs a more powerful (and disgusting) punch than a civilian-grade laser weapon, I think the army would've used this for war. I guess people thought these super-deadly energy weapons called “nukes” were going to destroy the world? But the paranormal got people first, about forty years ago. As far as dad knew, and he knew a lot.
I really, truly miss dad. I really do. I think I ran out of tears after they pulled that dog off of me. It still hurts. Anyway, I smell something good cooking, and Gregory's telling me it's almost dinnertime. If this meal's as good as it smells, I think he picked a keeper of a husband in Harry!
February 2nd, 2096
Gardens; extreme weather; a picture; a playful creature
I've been here at the base of the Scholars for a couple days now. Not like I have a choice right now; it's a blizzard outside. The humid warmth of this greenhouse they have, however, is a stark contrast to the frigid cold outside. They've had me maintain the plants here, and that makes sense; we had a garden and a chicken coop back at my old home. Poor things are probably wolf chow by now.
As Gregory suspected, the tech cultists were intrigued by Greased Lightning. They wanted to observe and catalog the blaster. Part of me is afraid they won't give it back, but the other part is glad to not have it on my hip. I've done a lot more killing with that weapon this past month than ever, and even against things that weren't just deer for dinner.
Among the cult, I've seen all sorts of cool technology I'd only heard of before; some of it I'd never known existed! To think there are devices that you can play games on, without a worn old board, or plastic pieces and dice. The plasma generator was incredible, giving life through steady electrical output instead of taking it. The microwave oven is fascinating, able to cook food without needing gas or burning wood. It's even moist, and takes a lot less time than the stove back home.
The computers though! I got to see one of them in person, even use it for my free time! They say that if I can prove myself, they'll let me keep a device called a “smartphone”. It'll let me talk to anyone else who owns a phone (as few as they are), and they'll grant me some “data” to access what's left of the internet. All I have to do is help them on a salvage run to seal the deal; most of what they're offering for my help is just room and board.
I'm both excited and nervous for this mission. What if I have to kill again? They tell me it's dangerous, but that I'm a natural at fighting to have lived this long. Dad did teach me to use my pistol, and even how to use my hunting knife that's still in my pack. Later today I'm supposed to meet with Gregory again, who will show me how to handle a bullet guns. Some bullet pistols and a shotgun.
Er, I mean a regular pistol. My energy weapon is the exception to the gun rule, so I'm told. He said it's chambered in nine millimeter rounds, in case I run into other guns like it. “9mm” for short. The other one is called a revolver, chambered with “.357 Magnum” rounds. Bigger kick, but an easier gun to maintain and repair than a 9mm pistol. I'm not looking forward to trying a shotgun again but it's supposed to be really strong, especially up close.
I've made a friend with one of the cats here, one who mostly pokes around the greenhouse. His name is Sylvester; I guess he's named after an old cartoon character. A cartoon is like these moving pictures with sound, colorful and funny. I got to watch some that were shown on Saturday mornings for kids, all for free to whoever owned a television device. Somehow, people from the 1980's knew that energy weapons would become real, even if the Scholars think they only first saw creation in the late 2010's.
Technology is crazy, but so is the new magic. Kathy used to do all sorts of weird and cool things with her magic and potions and rituals. Apparently Sylvester is a magical kind of cat, one that didn't turn into a “parahuman” like me after the Moon Fall. Even if not a cat-person, he's a really smart kitty with these weird purple eyes. When he locks eyes with me, I think I can understand what he's trying to tell me. No words, but I get this weird feeling in my head of what he wants. The Scholars say he's psychic, and I swear I've seen him tug small objects closer to him without touching them.
They're debating what to call his species. Something spelled “cait sith”, despite being pronounced “cath she”. I knew it's an old Irish name for a fairy cat, and that Gaelic is spelled weird compared to the English I know. And if this journal doesn't hint at that, I know a lot of English.
Anyway, I don't wanna get yelled at for writing in you. Hope I can make it through the scavenging mission to write in you more, even if I don't get that smartphone.
So there's this solo journaling game I'd taken interest in from r/Solo_Roleplaying months ago, called The Adventurer. I'd wanted to play it with my avatar character Raziya, but figured it'd be a good backstory for Dana. As such, this'll serve as a "Session 0".
~~~~~~~
January 15th, 2096
Prologue: No cards drawn
He's dead. Ye gods, my father is dead. I still haven't come to terms with what happened, and it all happened so fast. Dad had been on-edge these last few days, and he told me to keep Greased Lightning holstered on my hip as often as I could. I now understand why he wanted this. I assumed there was something up at his job, the one he leaves the cabin for days on end to do.
I'm an adult now, nineteen years old, and I have no choice but to go out into the overgrown wasteland that dad shielded me from. I never quite felt like an adult, but after today I have no choice. I saw the people barging in shoot him dead. I ran screaming, attack dogs chasing me. I didn't get far before I had to open fire on them. My gods... the smell of ozone and burned flesh, the blood on my limbs from their teeth, the squelching of molten flesh sloughing from their dying bodies. I've never used my blaster this close before, but the things it can do to people... I nearly threw up on the spot.
And that was before I melted the gunman's face off. Well, there was a liquefied stump left of his neck; the sheer heat of the plasma made his head explode. I lost my breakfast after seeing what it did to the bastard. I sat there for a while after the hitman's corpse hit the snow, bleeding and sobbing. I don't know how I could get up and treat my wounds, especially with my slain father's body laying there in a pool of blood, peppered with bullets. Probably the cold.
The only parent I have left was his ex, and I don't even know where she lives. All I know is that there's this settlement they talked about before. Lock City. Could there even be a city left in this day and age? I don't have a choice but to find out. Someone I'm sane, but I don't think that'll last. I grabbed his winter coat and his boots, among other goods I could stuff into a backpack. I also grabbed our old calender, so I can tell how many days have passed.
I'm setting out into the overgrown apocalypse around me. Sekhmet, Lugh, give me the strength to soldier on. I'm going to need it.
January 16th, 2096
Coastline; a vision of yourself; a lone traveler; a map
Am I going to make entries every day? Never really kept a journal outside of my early teens. Doesn't help that, according to my dad, I developed a lot faster than most kids. I'm still not sure what he meant; I don't have any memories beyond being twelve. Weird.
Anyway, here I am at the edge of the great Erie Canal. This was something people created many, many years ago. To think it extends this far is incredible, let alone seeing the dams of metal! I think when I finally reach Lock City, I'll be amazed even to see the ruins. I've never seen such marvels of the old world before. Well, assuming I'll live that long. At least I've got my winter pelt; the thick coat and boots help too. My fingers and toes get cold real easy, which is rough when both are bare most of a given year.
I'd always heard terrible things about terrible people from dad. Raiders, slavers, gangers, hitmen, cannibals and cultists. If not for his ex's point of view, I would've thought everyone in the world would be out to get me. After all, I'd only know them, and the guy who murdered my father. But somehow, there was this older guy with one of those two-handed, bullet-shooting guns out and about. Called himself a scavenger, though he was mainly hunting for his little settlement. He was caught off-guard when I trudged out into the clearing, pointing his weapon at me for a second. I cried out in terror, scrambling for my blaster. I was surprised that he didn't shoot, and I was glad I didn't have to melt holes into him either.
The man's name was Tim. After he realized I was a person and not a monster, he beckoned me closer and lowered his weapon. I think he called it a shotgun. He'd never seen a gun like mine, or even that such weapons still worked. Most of how I said it worked went over his head, but c'mon. How does someone not know what plasma pinch, electromagnetism and a coilgun are? But he understood the whole “point at something you want dead, pull trigger, hope you hit and turn flesh into ectoplasmic goo” thing pretty well. His advice was that I get a gun like his: bullets were a lot easier to come by than power cells and plasma carts, and I didn't even have to lead the shot.
He let me try his shotgun out. My word, my ears hurt and I nearly dropped the thing after pulling the trigger! I'm not a strong fox, even I'm sure and sugar a fast one. Sure as sugar... my dad's ex, Kathy, used to say that. Less gross and more polite that “sure as shit”, I'm certain.
After our meeting, Tim let me have some of his excess rations. He felt bad for me, after I told him what happened. Using this very journal and this pen, he gave me instructions on how to get back home to his settlement. He called it Pine Vale, and it wasn't far from Lock City. Still a ways away, but at least I had an idea of how to get there. He advised against the city though, saying that I couldn't get far unless I had money or trade goods. I have neither. But he said he'd put in a good word at Pine Vale if I lived that long. I didn't go with him as he suggested, but I kept his advice in mind.
One last thing. As I expected, I had a nightmare about what happened yesterday. I woke up screaming, and broke down in tears again. But somehow, as I trudged out of that lean-to I built, it dawned on me. I lived. Somehow, someway, I'd survived a hit on me and my dad. Somehow, someway, I didn't freeze to death out here, or get eaten by monsters. Or even eaten by raiders. I lived. I fucking LIVED.
In the memory of my dad, Horatio Cooper, I swear I'll make it work. By my lucky stars. So help me Sekhmet, Lugh, Athena, Jesus, Flying Spaghetti Monster, and anyone else who will fucking listen. I will live. I will fucking live. Slowly yet surely, I'll stop being the scared, heartbroken little fox I'd become just yesterday.
I, uh, don't usually drop F-bombs as often as that. I hope this doesn't become a habit.
January 21st, 2096
Place of worship; lost your supplies; a new food; an ancient evil
Oh gods. Oh gods. I had to kill again. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had eaten the last of my rations this morning, and I needed to find something to eat. I don't know how well I could hunt with my blaster, and I was kicking myself for forgetting to grab my dad's laser rifle back home. Not that I knew his lock-down combination, nor the safe code for his spare laser batteries. At this point, the weapon's just salvage for anyone who happens upon his
I had to stop there. I'm still shook up after what happened. I had made my way to an old church, hoping I could meet some squatters or religious folk. I'd steal from them if I had to, but I hoped I wouldn't have to. What I met with wasn't Christian, despite the stone cross on the front of the building. Some kind of cult. I walked in on them loafing around, but there was clearly a sacrificed person on a table. I gasped at the horror, and one of them reached for his gun.
My impulses got the better of me. No way this guy wouldn't shoot me, unlike Tim. Even if just a show of muscle, I couldn't wind up like that dead person on the table. I cleared pleather and opened fire. The guy's chest exploded open, and the other cultists retaliated. I ducked for cover, trying to remember what dad taught me about gunfights. I peeked around the entrance, shooting wild. There were four of them total, and one had his arm melted from the shoulder at the suppressive fire. When the third assailant made it to me with a big knife, I killed him just as horribly. I got sick again when his innards spilled, but somehow I didn't barf.
I wrote there were four of them, but only three attacked. The last one cowered in the corner when I staggered inside, seeing the carnage I dealt. The one with his half-melted arm on the ground tried to scramble for the first one's pistol. I closed my eyes and shot for his head, and his life ended in a dampened crack and a smell of ozone.
The remaining cultist begged for his life as I stumbled toward him. Maybe he saw the energy weapon shaking in my hand. But he didn't know what I saw about a week ago. How could he understand when, vision blurring and eyes burning, I told him to take what he had and run? Sure, he or his friends did horrible things to that mangled person on the table. But I couldn't kill him. He was as petrified as I was, when that hitman came and took my father and my safe lifestyle from me.
I kept my plasma gun trained on him, but I let him live. He took some supplies and left. He could've tried to shoot me with that bullet-shooting pistol, but he didn't. He just took it from his dead friend, and with a heavy heart to match mine, marched out into the cold.
When I had time to put two and two together in the bloodstained church, I figured out who they were sacrificing to. This cult was dedicated to Satan, the evil god of the bible. Most people worshiping the God of the bible don't see Satan as a god, but he may as well be. Not every god is good, after all. Only the “new age bullshit”, as dad would've called his ex's composite religion, could've informed me of deities both pagan and modern.
I took what I could from the fridge, and found some old beverage in a can. I didn't want to trust something that was made about forty years ago, but if they were gonna drink it, why not? I cracked open that can of Stardust Cola... and I was hooked. Dad had made homemade cola before but my various gods, this stuff was good! I hoped the caffeine would keep me awake better. I hoped it would keep me from dozing off so soon, and avoid another nightmare.
I was wrong. But hey, it was tasty. If I live long enough to make it to Lock City or Pine Vale, I hope I can trade for more of this stuff. Stardust Cola... delicious.
January 27th, 2096
A city; lost on way; a toy; a new / old love
(normally drew a 2 for the Clubs, “a new / old foe”; there's no 1 in a deck of cards, and I felt this would make more sense)
If I had the strength to, I would've written this days ago. But I didn't. I couldn't. I had nearly succumbed to the harshest day this winter, and I needed to save my strength. I had gotten way, way lost and everything was a maze of trees, ruined streets and snow.
I thought I was going to die. I really, truly thought I was going to die. I didn't even get a message from any of my gods. I didn't see the Grim Reaper, of whom I'm sure will smell of that electric reek my blaster makes when it kills someone.
No, after blacking out with a face full of snow, I awoke in a tent. Someone was sure that some druggie had hauled in a corpse just waiting to happen. I guess that addict overheard, for he poked in his greasy, dark-haired head into the tent, a mock-serious tone on his voice. That's when I saw him: the guy who saved my life.
His name is Tom. He told me he was having a smoke break at the time, though he smelt more like a skunk than like old tobacco. Only my weapon kept my hands warm in that deathly cold, and only because the plastic casing was warm while turned on. Even so I had to pass the blaster between my hands, because my gloves just weren't cutting it.
Tom's a member of this trade caravan. They bring useful supplies and different old-world knick-knacks all across this region, all stuff people would trade for. They even have old coins that people use to seal the deal, covering a difference in bartered goods in big settlements. The guy stayed by my side as I rested in bed. Heck, he wouldn't let me get up from the bed until he and their medic thought I was well enough. Chicken noodle soup filled my belly in the meantime. I love chicken, so I didn't complain, but the lack of activity drove me nuts.
All the while, I was still having those nightmares. They weren't as consistent as they were days after my exodus, but I still got them. I was still waking up in the dead of night, screaming and crying. The medic said I might have developed something called PTSD. It meant some things might hurt my mind worse than others. Told me to watch out for “trigger warnings”, if I developed any. All I know is that their one dog scared me. It was a friendly dog, more curious at seeing a fox girl than anything. But when she barreled toward me with a curious bark, I panicked. She was on top of me, trying to lick my face, and I hit the poor thing in the face.
Her owner wasn't super angry with me after I pummeled his pet. Upset for hitting his companion, yes, but he cooled off after the doctor told him what happened to me. After all, I was livid even after they got Sandra Dee off of me. Poor thing! I was shaking even giving her treats as an apology for how I reacted. Am I going to be scared of dogs until I die? Or even after?
All I know is, Tom tried to have me lighten up. He offered his drug to me. That skunk-smelling stuff that he called weed, wrapped in paper like an old cigarette. I smoked with him, or tried to. That stuff hurt my lungs. He told me I had to keep it inside to get high and feel better, but I didn't want to. So instead of “toking” with him, he gave me something else to calm me down. An old stuffed animal, one of those toys from before the fall. It was a little cat.
I felt bad. It meant whoever owned this little cat in the past was long dead, and probably a child. But looking at the little white plushie, its plastic eyes staring back at me, and its tattered fluff exterior soothing in my paws... I couldn't pass up this gift. The toy must've made a child happy back when, and I couldn't just let her rot away without an owner. I named her Sophie, and I slept with her in my hands last night.
And somehow? I didn't have a nightmare. I can barely remember the dream, but I slept soundly. And a good thing too... today, we're at Lock City. Today, I'm going to need all my strength to try and find Kathy, or to try and get a home. Something important.
Tom said his farewells, as did everyone else on the caravan, and we went our separate ways. They told me not to visit the “dead streets”, parts of Lock City that weren't lived in. I don't know what lies ahead, but I hope for the best. It's almost noon, so I'm going to put you away in my backpack and hope for the best.
January 28th, 2096
Ghost town / village; taken in by strangers; a curse or spell; a tyrant king
Against my better judgment, I decided to explore the dead streets. No one let me stay with them in Lock City, and I couldn't let myself die of the cold. Not after it nearly happened already. People in the city weren't nearly as nice as those I'd met. Not everyone was an asshole, but most were. They called me things like “furry”, and at least one of them pointed a gun at me. And those are just the jerks that gave me the time of day! I'm starting to think Tim was right about Pine Vale. Hope he lived long enough to get back home, and told people about me like he said he would.
I learned that the mayor of this big settlement, someone named Kowalski, sold out the city to some police force from Canada called Northern Lights. Tom didn't trust them, and had warned me about the “pigs” and the “fascists” among them. None of them were pig-people, and what the fuck is a fascist? I guess it's not important, any of them I met also ignored me. They had some serious firepower though; black guns with big magazines, and body armor that people say can stop bullets. I don't know how thick clothing can stop a bullet, but I'm sure it couldn't stop my plasma, or even a laser. Good thing I didn't need to find out. Besides, even if I did, more would probably show up and fill me with holes.
Somehow I found some folks in the dead streets that didn't try to hurt me. An older couple, two men, let me stay with them tonight. I had nothing to offer them, but one of them said I could do some chores to earn my keep for the night. So I did. It's not like I didn't do chores around the house for dad. The guy that offered, who was the less-stronger-looking one, was impressed by my cleaning.
The stronger-looking guy, somehow, was impressed by how much I knew about the old gods. He was faithful to one of the new gods, one I'd never heard of. Someone called RNGesus, of whom a “tech cult” outside of Lock City worshiped. Is this RNGesus an aspect of this Jesus guy I've heard of? Maybe. All he knows is that I should bring in some of my technology to him, especially my energy weapon. Even if I didn't sell them any of it, they might arrange to give me some goods in return. Heck, maybe I could even help them with a technical issue for money or barter goods?
His cult is called the “Scholars of the Superhighway”. Apparently there's this invisible world called the Internet, where people could connect themselves to others. Dad referenced it before, with some world-related stuff. It dawns on me that he might've mentioned the Scholars before too, but I can't remember how or when. All I know is, I can't rely on charity forever. I need to meet these Scholars and get in their good graces. With the stronger husband backing me up (name's Gregory Stone, lest I forget), I'm sure I can find something of use from this tech cult. Sure hope so!
But the Scholars aren't the first faction dad had ever mentioned, now that I'm thinking on it. He talked about the North Star Rangers the most though. An old military branch that acted quick after the apocalypse, pulling people together to keep others safe from monsters. From what I understand, Northern Lights is supposed to do the same, as well as be police. But they also don't protect everyone, like the Rangers did. No, they only look out for people who hired them, and unlike the Rangers they didn't forge or accept donations. Apparently the Lights are paid regularly for their protection?
All I know is, it's because of the Rangers that dad got me Greased Lightning back when. This blaster of mine is a pre-fall device that the US Armed Forces developed, with the help of an old company called Horizon Electronics. Was one of the last energy weapons they made before the Moon Fall. Maybe the Scholars will know more? Because it packs a more powerful (and disgusting) punch than a civilian-grade laser weapon, I think the army would've used this for war. I guess people thought these super-deadly energy weapons called “nukes” were going to destroy the world? But the paranormal got people first, about forty years ago. As far as dad knew, and he knew a lot.
I really, truly miss dad. I really do. I think I ran out of tears after they pulled that dog off of me. It still hurts. Anyway, I smell something good cooking, and Gregory's telling me it's almost dinnertime. If this meal's as good as it smells, I think he picked a keeper of a husband in Harry!
February 2nd, 2096
Gardens; extreme weather; a picture; a playful creature
I've been here at the base of the Scholars for a couple days now. Not like I have a choice right now; it's a blizzard outside. The humid warmth of this greenhouse they have, however, is a stark contrast to the frigid cold outside. They've had me maintain the plants here, and that makes sense; we had a garden and a chicken coop back at my old home. Poor things are probably wolf chow by now.
As Gregory suspected, the tech cultists were intrigued by Greased Lightning. They wanted to observe and catalog the blaster. Part of me is afraid they won't give it back, but the other part is glad to not have it on my hip. I've done a lot more killing with that weapon this past month than ever, and even against things that weren't just deer for dinner.
Among the cult, I've seen all sorts of cool technology I'd only heard of before; some of it I'd never known existed! To think there are devices that you can play games on, without a worn old board, or plastic pieces and dice. The plasma generator was incredible, giving life through steady electrical output instead of taking it. The microwave oven is fascinating, able to cook food without needing gas or burning wood. It's even moist, and takes a lot less time than the stove back home.
The computers though! I got to see one of them in person, even use it for my free time! They say that if I can prove myself, they'll let me keep a device called a “smartphone”. It'll let me talk to anyone else who owns a phone (as few as they are), and they'll grant me some “data” to access what's left of the internet. All I have to do is help them on a salvage run to seal the deal; most of what they're offering for my help is just room and board.
I'm both excited and nervous for this mission. What if I have to kill again? They tell me it's dangerous, but that I'm a natural at fighting to have lived this long. Dad did teach me to use my pistol, and even how to use my hunting knife that's still in my pack. Later today I'm supposed to meet with Gregory again, who will show me how to handle a bullet guns. Some bullet pistols and a shotgun.
Er, I mean a regular pistol. My energy weapon is the exception to the gun rule, so I'm told. He said it's chambered in nine millimeter rounds, in case I run into other guns like it. “9mm” for short. The other one is called a revolver, chambered with “.357 Magnum” rounds. Bigger kick, but an easier gun to maintain and repair than a 9mm pistol. I'm not looking forward to trying a shotgun again but it's supposed to be really strong, especially up close.
I've made a friend with one of the cats here, one who mostly pokes around the greenhouse. His name is Sylvester; I guess he's named after an old cartoon character. A cartoon is like these moving pictures with sound, colorful and funny. I got to watch some that were shown on Saturday mornings for kids, all for free to whoever owned a television device. Somehow, people from the 1980's knew that energy weapons would become real, even if the Scholars think they only first saw creation in the late 2010's.
Technology is crazy, but so is the new magic. Kathy used to do all sorts of weird and cool things with her magic and potions and rituals. Apparently Sylvester is a magical kind of cat, one that didn't turn into a “parahuman” like me after the Moon Fall. Even if not a cat-person, he's a really smart kitty with these weird purple eyes. When he locks eyes with me, I think I can understand what he's trying to tell me. No words, but I get this weird feeling in my head of what he wants. The Scholars say he's psychic, and I swear I've seen him tug small objects closer to him without touching them.
They're debating what to call his species. Something spelled “cait sith”, despite being pronounced “cath she”. I knew it's an old Irish name for a fairy cat, and that Gaelic is spelled weird compared to the English I know. And if this journal doesn't hint at that, I know a lot of English.
Anyway, I don't wanna get yelled at for writing in you. Hope I can make it through the scavenging mission to write in you more, even if I don't get that smartphone.
Session Two: Interference
Given a quick rundown of how the talk session will go, Dana is brought to the recording room. The boisterous fanfare is played for the Trashman's interview segment, Talking Trash, befitting the loud-mouthed radio personality as he begins his spiel.
“Welcome to the show, bitches and bastards!” the Trashman bellows. “It's your old pal, the one and only Trashman, coming in live from a dumpy little studio in downtown Lock City! Bringing it live over 92.7 WKRD, Wild Kard Radio, but you lovable twats know that already! Time to start talking trash! Speaking of trash, any of you poke around the old dumpsters out there? One man's treasure, right? Even after the end of the world, we're still upholding the honored tradition of dumpster diving!”
He casts his gaze up from his notepad and gazes to Dana, giving his crude and charismatic grin with his yellowed teeth. “But we've got nothing on the critters roaming this overgrown hellhole, do we? Those urban animals are making it by, just like us. Raccoons and possums and rats... hell, even foxes! Maybe you sorry suckers have heard of this twenty-something poking around since this year. This lean, mean, monster-melting machine, armed with a raygun that's got more punch than a 40-watt range!”
Peeking to the other side of the glass in the recording booth, Sherrie gives Dana a thumbs up as the Trashman continues. “What if I told you that I managed to get her on the show? She's been sitting here with her can of off-brand pop while I verbally kiss her right beneath the tail, so it's time I cut to the chase. Today on Talking Trash, we've got the motherfucking Apocalypse Fox, the ass-kicking vixen Dana!”
A cheering fanfare blasts over the radio feed as Dana finally chimes in. “Damn straight. It's a blast to be here in the flesh and fur, Trashman! I tune in all the time, and not just because it's the only station I can pick up”.
The Trashman nods sharply. “Damn straight right back at you, kid! Not like the up-tight dickheads at New Toronto have the balls to broadcast like I do. But don't tell 'em I said that, shh!” With a guffaw the Trashman begins his interview. “So you know the deal by now, O ye faithful listeners. Let's get the usual out of the way. Dana, tell us what you're all about. You've been kicking ass around these parts for a year now, right?”
Dana nods, “Yeah. I'm nothing special, just a monster hunter who likes to pretend she's a hero. A wannabe ranger of the wasteland”.
The Trashman scoffs. “Nothing special my ass! Last I checked, we pulled you onto this show because you're a damn good singer! Earlier this month you stuck it to the werewolves at Ricky's Place, back when it was still the Pred-Den, right? What was that about? Did those man-eating freaks decide to screw with the wrong fox?”
These words echo through Dana's mind, and for a moment she hesitates. Given her night terrors and the trauma associated with them, does Dana need to focus to avoiding choking on the air? YES, AND her silence is longer than she realized, in spite of her response! Her Mental Effect saving throw succeeds at 16 (DC 12) however, so not all is lost!
Just as the Trashman starts to give a concerned look, Dana chimes in with her prior gusto. “Of course they did”, she grins, “But that's what happens when you try to fuck with my pals. I've kicked peoples' asses for my sake; people die when they go after my loved ones!”
The Trashman nods, thankful that his guest has got her groove back. “Of course! I've gotta say, you're cut from a different cloth than most of the people out there. If I had a rusted old quarter for every guy out there who looks out for their own ass, Kowalski would blush at my wealth! So what friends did they fuck with? Or do you have an identity to protect?”
Dana blinks, her smirk fading. “Afraid I do, Trashy”, she responds, “But hey. If you're listening out there, my dude? Wherever you're prowling, I miss you. Better come back safe, or I'll find a way to kick your ass, just you wait!”
Another horse laugh from Trashman. “That's the Apoc-Fox people know, right there! So people have been wondering about you here and there, and I've got questions they've been asking. You tell me how much your bullshit meter goes off when I tell you them, okay?”
“Lay 'em on me”, Dana smirks. “How many of them involve me sleeping in a cage?”
“Actually”, the Trashman grins, “That's one of 'em! Okay, okay, question one...” For these next questions, I'll be rolling the oracle and will ask the same statement: will this question upset Dana? If enough are rolled, depending on the result, I may force another Mental Effect save to have her keep her cool. Let's begin...
Question one: YES, BUT it's a pretty stereotypical question for non-humans. “Have you ever done sex work for fetishists?”
Dana immediately responds with an incredulous tone, “Fucking really?”
“That's the question!” Trashman shrugs. “I didn't write this shit! I can't tell who wrote it: someone who's a racist fuck, or someone wants to get in your pants. Fifty-fifty shot it's a good time, right?”
“Well no”, Dana grunts, “I don't fuck at the drop of a hat. As much as old cultures would have you believe”.
“Right, right”, the host concedes, “No need to tell me twice. Alright, maybe this second one's better?” Question two: NO. “Where do you come from, anyway? Mutants are rare, so why are you here in Lock City?”
Dana nods, “If you can believe it, I grew up in a cabin in the woods. Never really lived till I came out this way”.
“Uh huh”, the Trashman nods. “But why'd you come out this way? Had to have been an easy life out in the woods, right?”
Does Dana decide to indulge her origins over the radio, for all in Lock City and beyond to hear? NO. “All you need to know”, she responds evenly, “Is that I'm here now, and I couldn't live out there forever”.
“Strong and silent type”, Trashman admires. “Perfect for a slayer like you. Okay, one more question. After that, let's get on topic with current events. And if we've got time, maybe you can stretch those vocal chord and treat us to a song, eh?”
Question three: YES. “A lot of people have been asking this one, Dana. Hate to ask but they wanna know: why do you act like a hero? Sometimes, not even a hero for hire? There are plenty of officers from the Lights, and plenty of mercs besides that. Why is that?”
This question gives Dana pause once more. Her ears begin to fold, and her gaze is distant. She wants to answer but her mind draws a blank, and there's just radio silence. The Trashman motions for Dana to speak up, but the words won't come out. Only his verbal prodding gets her to respond moments later, “Dana?”
The vixen's Mental Effect save succeeds again at a 19; she doesn't break down or respond with anger, but her words are still troubled. “Who says I'm a hero? Are they saying that because they don't trust me?”
The Trashman blinks, his loud and proud attitude fading fast. “Hey”, he replies, “It's just a question. I can't speak for the people around here, but someone looks up to that. Like I said, you're different in a good way”.
Dana shakes her head. “But I'm still different. And real talk, I've asked myself those same questions all year long”. Her next words are hoarse and quiet, barely audible even over the microphone, “All damn year long”.
The Trashman is perplexed and at a crossroads. He knows the show must go on, but he can clearly tell Dana is upset. Does he try to segue back into the show, changing the subject? NO, AND as he's motioning to find a good cut for the feed, he's reaching out to pat Dana on the shoulder. “Hey. We're going to cut to a break, people. When we come back, we're talking more trash and we're gonna shoot the shit about a revived rumor around the city”. He looks to a whiteboard held up by one of the tech cultists, an old dry-erase marker mentioning a song title. “For your ear-holes till then, let's rock to some mandatory Metallica!”
Once the On Air sign loses its lighting, the Trashman gets up from his seat and walks to Dana. “Hey”, he speaks softly. “I'm sorry. Should've ran this shit by you. I had no idea it'd hit you like a truck”.
Dana shakes her lowered snout. “And how could you? But it's not your fault. It's mine. Fuck me, it's mine”.
“Come on”, he soothes despite vulgarity, “Don't fucking say that”. Does the Trashman get the hint that Dana evaded the second question? NO. “What's got you so worked up, kid? People look up to you, and those who don't? Fuck 'em. If someone wanted my head on a plate, I'd rather get you to keep me safe than one of the Lights, let alone someone who kills people for a living”.
Dana's anger finally sets in. “What the fuck is the difference?” she glowers. “That's all I do. Doesn't matter if they pay me or not. All I fucking do is kill for a living!”
The Trashman staggers a bit. Raising his voice to match Dana's aggression he ripostes, “But that's not all you are, kid! The world's a fucked up place! I know. We all know. And in spite of it, we've got people like you. People who risk their lives for us, and don't care what we give you in return. It's not for money and it's not for murder, is it?” He claps a meaty hand on Dana's shoulder. “It's because you give a damn. Isn't it? That's why you do this thankless job, isn't it?”
Does Dana have time to respond? YES, BUT not as much time as she'd want. “Maybe I do”, she growls, “And maybe I just have a death wish. It's hard to tell sometimes. No. Fucking hell, it's hard to--”
The melody of the music in the background distorts, a sharp whine cutting the broadcast. Dana covers her sensitive ears from the white noise, and it's loud enough to pull the Trashman's eyes away. “Hey”, he calls to those outside, likewise covering their ears. “The hell's going on out there?! Did one of those damn cultists fuck something up again?”
The piercing noise ceases, cut in with a dull, rhythmic beep. Sherrie opens the door. “Trashy”, she quickly replies, “We don't know what's up. The whole system's shut down, but all this is playing over our airwaves”.
The Trashman scowls. “Shut down? Then how the hell is it even playing? And what's this damn beeping!?”
“It's called Morse code”, Sherrie responds. “I don't know what it's saying, but people can send messages with those beeps. It's--”
Abruptly a three-note tone plays over the air, grainy and eerie. Due to past fiddling with her smartphone, Dana identifies this as the intercept message tone; it is commonly encountered from a lack of working telephone numbers left. After the tone ceases, there is a quiet over the air. The clearing of one's throat is followed by a weary groan, and a voice begins speaking numbers in a humdrum voice over the air.
If only to make matters worse, a red light in the corner of the ceiling casts crimson light across the dim room. A soft gasp leaves Sherrie, and the Trashman gazes to Dana. “That's”, he grimly gasps. “That's our silent alarm. Is Bobby dead downstairs? What on Earth is happening?”
Dana jerks herself out of her sullen mood. “I don't know”, she speaks swift, “But I'm finding out. Is there somewhere to hide?”
“Y-yes”, Sherrie nods. “We have a procedure for intruders. Dana, you don't have to do this”.
“Wrong”, she grimaces, drawing her blaster from the holster. “I don't have a choice”. She soon skulks through the hallways, the monotone voice's broadcast echoing behind her. Her Stealth of 7 beats a DC of 6; whoever has broken in can't find her.
Padding toward the first floor lobby, Dana's eyes narrow to get a better look from her vantage point. An unidentified person in a dark blue robe seems to lead the raid, a big hood obscuring their face in the darkness. Milling about are people of various individuals of different shapes and sizes. Dana's Perception of 8 matches the DC; men and woman alike, and even a teenager among them... but all of their movements are sluggish and lack a rhyme or reason. A Tech / Medical check comes up short with a 6, failing a DC 8: are they drugged?
In this darkness, the flash of Dana's energy weapon will surely give away her position. Is the broadcast loud enough on the speakers to at least obscure the crack of her plasma bolts, or even her movement? NO, BUT the shrouded intruder seems totally unaware of her presence.
Is Bobby truly dead? YES, his corpse is laying on the ground in a pool of blood. Is his Uzi missing? NO, AND it's still on the ground in his hand, far from the leader. Even in this dim lighting, Dana's night vision allows her to try and assess what killed him. Tech / Medical comes up 8, exceeding a DC of 6; there's a bullet hole in his ribs, and his head is caved in. One of the staggered intruders is carrying a bloodied piece of pipe.
Dana tries to slip in, wanting her initial blast to count. She hopes shooting the robed individual might demoralize their strangely-acting accomplices. Her Stealth comes up 5 against DC 8; she's been spotted! A husky voice shouts from the hood of the robe, pointing toward the startled vixen: “Furry! Get her!”
ENCOUNTER BEGINS... due to the bizarre nature of the intruders, only the robed one draws initiative cards; all else act act after them and Dana. She draws a 5, and the intruder a 6. Even in the dark, Dana can tell this one's hand is a mottled red color... clearly inhuman. Pulling a worn revolver into view, they try to take a potshot at the fox...
…and nails a natural 20! Dana cries out in pain, taking 2 damage (base roll of 1); she can't help but feel that only adrenaline is keeping her from being felled from a similar shot to the chest as the guard! She doesn't try to avert her vengeance and fires right back. Roll of 20, hitting AC 6 and dealing 5 damage.
The room flashes briefly with a pale blue light, the intruder screaming as the cerulean bolt collides and bursts with their own chest! From the cinders of the robe Dana can tell two things: the enemy is wearing armor of piecemeal metal underneath, and their screams and shudders hint that they aren't fond of energy weapons.
The three other enemies all stagger toward Dana. Why have none of them tried to grab the dead man's gun? Attacks of 13 and 8 don't hit Dana's AC 5, but a 16 does: she suffers 3 more damage as one of them swings wild, walloping her with a lariat to rival a pro wrestler of old.
ROUND 2. Dana's HP is 8 out of 13; her Vengeful flaw has shifted to her last aggressor, Intruder B. Is anyone else coming to try and help her? YES. Hearing the commotion, a tech cultist armed with a laser pistol is making their way downstairs, and will act on his own initiative card. For sake of ease, they will be counted as a 1st Level Scrounger, using the premade NPC stats from Other Dust.
Dana draws a Jack, the robed one a 2, and the tech cultist a King. Just as Dana begins to run from the approaching rabble, a flash of scarlet light bursts onto the scene! Barely hitting Intruder A (14 versus AC 8), the red laser's beam sears away 5 HP's worth of rib meat. Needless to say the teen buckles under the burning heat, trying to slump toward Dana still.
Wanting to finish off the foe in front of her, Dana exerts herself to push past her wrath. She spends 1 point of Strain to target Intruder A instead of B, and opens fire! 17 hits AC 8 and deals 7 damage, ending the troubled youth's short life in a spray of spattered skull.
With the arrival of backup, the shrouded attacker throws back his hood for better aim. To the horror of Dana and the tech cultist, the short and portly man has a second mouth across his forehead! An attack of 2 misses wild against the cultist (AC 7), hitting the door frame that the techie ducks behind. The remaining enemies try to wail on Dana again – both a 17 and 15 hit, as both pipe and fist beat her senseless for a total of 6 damage. Intruder B is the last to hit her, invoking her wrath.
ROUND 3. Dana's not doing so hot at 2 HP left. She draws a 10, the cultist 8, and the intruder... a Queen. Seeing the opportunity to end the vixen's life, he aims for her. Somehow he misses with a 12, the bullet cracking into wall she'd ran past a mere moment ago. Dana's head is bleeding from a swollen bump; she has to end this now. She forces herself to aim at the two-mouthed assailant, taking another point of Strain...
...but misses with a 10 against AC 6. Immediately the cultist gives her cover fire against the leader, but also misses with an 8 as the others start to stagger toward him! The pair of approaching enemies try to lay into him. However he manages to slip away and keeps a bead on the main enemy, with attack rolls of 7 and 5 whiffing wild.
ROUND 4. With 2 HP still and two shots left in her plasma cartridge, will Dana make it? She draws a 7, the tech cultist an Ace, and the robed menace a 6. Again the cultist shoots at the head intruder; again he misses (6 versus AC 6)! Dana runs closer to Bobby's bloodied remains, hoping to grab the submachine gun if all else fails, and squeezes off another plasma toroid toward the two-mouthed menace. Her blast of 8 misses as well, both laser and plasma juked away from with inhuman reflexes.
With a wicked sneer across both mouths, the robed one takes aim. Will this be the end of the Apocalypse Fox? Thankfully not, for a roll of 5 misses wild! As for his allies, both try to chase down the cultist... and succeed. One hits with a 17, smashing his pipe into the back of the cultist's head for 4 damage. As he collapses, the other starts to stagger toward Dana...
ROUND 5. Things are grim. Dana draws an 8, but her enemy gets an Ace. All seems lost, and he knows this as he fires his final round. But the vixen's lucky stars buy her time, for 8 doesn't hit her AC. The vixen barely knows how to work a ballistic gun, but who doesn't in her day and age? Because she's untrained, she takes a -1 to hit. All or nothing. Dana pulls the trigger, trying to mulch this foe with full auto fire; this will give her a +2 to hit and damage, but use three ammunition per shot.
Natural 20! With a ruthless cry she charges the foe as he shrinks back, trying to get a speed loader ready, but the hail of bullets is not stopped by his scrap armor. His body shudders as bullets punch through him for 10 damage (4 base damage plus Dana's +1 from DEX), and with a gurgling he falls dead onto the floor.
And surprisingly, for weal of survival but woe of mind, so too do the others adversaries...
End of Session: Dana has earned 300 XP by surviving the confrontation against four CR 2 foes, even if barely. As I'm pressed for time, will resolve the other matters (loot, if the cultist is dead on the spot, and more) next session.
Given a quick rundown of how the talk session will go, Dana is brought to the recording room. The boisterous fanfare is played for the Trashman's interview segment, Talking Trash, befitting the loud-mouthed radio personality as he begins his spiel.
“Welcome to the show, bitches and bastards!” the Trashman bellows. “It's your old pal, the one and only Trashman, coming in live from a dumpy little studio in downtown Lock City! Bringing it live over 92.7 WKRD, Wild Kard Radio, but you lovable twats know that already! Time to start talking trash! Speaking of trash, any of you poke around the old dumpsters out there? One man's treasure, right? Even after the end of the world, we're still upholding the honored tradition of dumpster diving!”
He casts his gaze up from his notepad and gazes to Dana, giving his crude and charismatic grin with his yellowed teeth. “But we've got nothing on the critters roaming this overgrown hellhole, do we? Those urban animals are making it by, just like us. Raccoons and possums and rats... hell, even foxes! Maybe you sorry suckers have heard of this twenty-something poking around since this year. This lean, mean, monster-melting machine, armed with a raygun that's got more punch than a 40-watt range!”
Peeking to the other side of the glass in the recording booth, Sherrie gives Dana a thumbs up as the Trashman continues. “What if I told you that I managed to get her on the show? She's been sitting here with her can of off-brand pop while I verbally kiss her right beneath the tail, so it's time I cut to the chase. Today on Talking Trash, we've got the motherfucking Apocalypse Fox, the ass-kicking vixen Dana!”
A cheering fanfare blasts over the radio feed as Dana finally chimes in. “Damn straight. It's a blast to be here in the flesh and fur, Trashman! I tune in all the time, and not just because it's the only station I can pick up”.
The Trashman nods sharply. “Damn straight right back at you, kid! Not like the up-tight dickheads at New Toronto have the balls to broadcast like I do. But don't tell 'em I said that, shh!” With a guffaw the Trashman begins his interview. “So you know the deal by now, O ye faithful listeners. Let's get the usual out of the way. Dana, tell us what you're all about. You've been kicking ass around these parts for a year now, right?”
Dana nods, “Yeah. I'm nothing special, just a monster hunter who likes to pretend she's a hero. A wannabe ranger of the wasteland”.
The Trashman scoffs. “Nothing special my ass! Last I checked, we pulled you onto this show because you're a damn good singer! Earlier this month you stuck it to the werewolves at Ricky's Place, back when it was still the Pred-Den, right? What was that about? Did those man-eating freaks decide to screw with the wrong fox?”
These words echo through Dana's mind, and for a moment she hesitates. Given her night terrors and the trauma associated with them, does Dana need to focus to avoiding choking on the air? YES, AND her silence is longer than she realized, in spite of her response! Her Mental Effect saving throw succeeds at 16 (DC 12) however, so not all is lost!
Just as the Trashman starts to give a concerned look, Dana chimes in with her prior gusto. “Of course they did”, she grins, “But that's what happens when you try to fuck with my pals. I've kicked peoples' asses for my sake; people die when they go after my loved ones!”
The Trashman nods, thankful that his guest has got her groove back. “Of course! I've gotta say, you're cut from a different cloth than most of the people out there. If I had a rusted old quarter for every guy out there who looks out for their own ass, Kowalski would blush at my wealth! So what friends did they fuck with? Or do you have an identity to protect?”
Dana blinks, her smirk fading. “Afraid I do, Trashy”, she responds, “But hey. If you're listening out there, my dude? Wherever you're prowling, I miss you. Better come back safe, or I'll find a way to kick your ass, just you wait!”
Another horse laugh from Trashman. “That's the Apoc-Fox people know, right there! So people have been wondering about you here and there, and I've got questions they've been asking. You tell me how much your bullshit meter goes off when I tell you them, okay?”
“Lay 'em on me”, Dana smirks. “How many of them involve me sleeping in a cage?”
“Actually”, the Trashman grins, “That's one of 'em! Okay, okay, question one...” For these next questions, I'll be rolling the oracle and will ask the same statement: will this question upset Dana? If enough are rolled, depending on the result, I may force another Mental Effect save to have her keep her cool. Let's begin...
Question one: YES, BUT it's a pretty stereotypical question for non-humans. “Have you ever done sex work for fetishists?”
Dana immediately responds with an incredulous tone, “Fucking really?”
“That's the question!” Trashman shrugs. “I didn't write this shit! I can't tell who wrote it: someone who's a racist fuck, or someone wants to get in your pants. Fifty-fifty shot it's a good time, right?”
“Well no”, Dana grunts, “I don't fuck at the drop of a hat. As much as old cultures would have you believe”.
“Right, right”, the host concedes, “No need to tell me twice. Alright, maybe this second one's better?” Question two: NO. “Where do you come from, anyway? Mutants are rare, so why are you here in Lock City?”
Dana nods, “If you can believe it, I grew up in a cabin in the woods. Never really lived till I came out this way”.
“Uh huh”, the Trashman nods. “But why'd you come out this way? Had to have been an easy life out in the woods, right?”
Does Dana decide to indulge her origins over the radio, for all in Lock City and beyond to hear? NO. “All you need to know”, she responds evenly, “Is that I'm here now, and I couldn't live out there forever”.
“Strong and silent type”, Trashman admires. “Perfect for a slayer like you. Okay, one more question. After that, let's get on topic with current events. And if we've got time, maybe you can stretch those vocal chord and treat us to a song, eh?”
Question three: YES. “A lot of people have been asking this one, Dana. Hate to ask but they wanna know: why do you act like a hero? Sometimes, not even a hero for hire? There are plenty of officers from the Lights, and plenty of mercs besides that. Why is that?”
This question gives Dana pause once more. Her ears begin to fold, and her gaze is distant. She wants to answer but her mind draws a blank, and there's just radio silence. The Trashman motions for Dana to speak up, but the words won't come out. Only his verbal prodding gets her to respond moments later, “Dana?”
The vixen's Mental Effect save succeeds again at a 19; she doesn't break down or respond with anger, but her words are still troubled. “Who says I'm a hero? Are they saying that because they don't trust me?”
The Trashman blinks, his loud and proud attitude fading fast. “Hey”, he replies, “It's just a question. I can't speak for the people around here, but someone looks up to that. Like I said, you're different in a good way”.
Dana shakes her head. “But I'm still different. And real talk, I've asked myself those same questions all year long”. Her next words are hoarse and quiet, barely audible even over the microphone, “All damn year long”.
The Trashman is perplexed and at a crossroads. He knows the show must go on, but he can clearly tell Dana is upset. Does he try to segue back into the show, changing the subject? NO, AND as he's motioning to find a good cut for the feed, he's reaching out to pat Dana on the shoulder. “Hey. We're going to cut to a break, people. When we come back, we're talking more trash and we're gonna shoot the shit about a revived rumor around the city”. He looks to a whiteboard held up by one of the tech cultists, an old dry-erase marker mentioning a song title. “For your ear-holes till then, let's rock to some mandatory Metallica!”
Once the On Air sign loses its lighting, the Trashman gets up from his seat and walks to Dana. “Hey”, he speaks softly. “I'm sorry. Should've ran this shit by you. I had no idea it'd hit you like a truck”.
Dana shakes her lowered snout. “And how could you? But it's not your fault. It's mine. Fuck me, it's mine”.
“Come on”, he soothes despite vulgarity, “Don't fucking say that”. Does the Trashman get the hint that Dana evaded the second question? NO. “What's got you so worked up, kid? People look up to you, and those who don't? Fuck 'em. If someone wanted my head on a plate, I'd rather get you to keep me safe than one of the Lights, let alone someone who kills people for a living”.
Dana's anger finally sets in. “What the fuck is the difference?” she glowers. “That's all I do. Doesn't matter if they pay me or not. All I fucking do is kill for a living!”
The Trashman staggers a bit. Raising his voice to match Dana's aggression he ripostes, “But that's not all you are, kid! The world's a fucked up place! I know. We all know. And in spite of it, we've got people like you. People who risk their lives for us, and don't care what we give you in return. It's not for money and it's not for murder, is it?” He claps a meaty hand on Dana's shoulder. “It's because you give a damn. Isn't it? That's why you do this thankless job, isn't it?”
Does Dana have time to respond? YES, BUT not as much time as she'd want. “Maybe I do”, she growls, “And maybe I just have a death wish. It's hard to tell sometimes. No. Fucking hell, it's hard to--”
The melody of the music in the background distorts, a sharp whine cutting the broadcast. Dana covers her sensitive ears from the white noise, and it's loud enough to pull the Trashman's eyes away. “Hey”, he calls to those outside, likewise covering their ears. “The hell's going on out there?! Did one of those damn cultists fuck something up again?”
The piercing noise ceases, cut in with a dull, rhythmic beep. Sherrie opens the door. “Trashy”, she quickly replies, “We don't know what's up. The whole system's shut down, but all this is playing over our airwaves”.
The Trashman scowls. “Shut down? Then how the hell is it even playing? And what's this damn beeping!?”
“It's called Morse code”, Sherrie responds. “I don't know what it's saying, but people can send messages with those beeps. It's--”
Abruptly a three-note tone plays over the air, grainy and eerie. Due to past fiddling with her smartphone, Dana identifies this as the intercept message tone; it is commonly encountered from a lack of working telephone numbers left. After the tone ceases, there is a quiet over the air. The clearing of one's throat is followed by a weary groan, and a voice begins speaking numbers in a humdrum voice over the air.
If only to make matters worse, a red light in the corner of the ceiling casts crimson light across the dim room. A soft gasp leaves Sherrie, and the Trashman gazes to Dana. “That's”, he grimly gasps. “That's our silent alarm. Is Bobby dead downstairs? What on Earth is happening?”
Dana jerks herself out of her sullen mood. “I don't know”, she speaks swift, “But I'm finding out. Is there somewhere to hide?”
“Y-yes”, Sherrie nods. “We have a procedure for intruders. Dana, you don't have to do this”.
“Wrong”, she grimaces, drawing her blaster from the holster. “I don't have a choice”. She soon skulks through the hallways, the monotone voice's broadcast echoing behind her. Her Stealth of 7 beats a DC of 6; whoever has broken in can't find her.
Padding toward the first floor lobby, Dana's eyes narrow to get a better look from her vantage point. An unidentified person in a dark blue robe seems to lead the raid, a big hood obscuring their face in the darkness. Milling about are people of various individuals of different shapes and sizes. Dana's Perception of 8 matches the DC; men and woman alike, and even a teenager among them... but all of their movements are sluggish and lack a rhyme or reason. A Tech / Medical check comes up short with a 6, failing a DC 8: are they drugged?
In this darkness, the flash of Dana's energy weapon will surely give away her position. Is the broadcast loud enough on the speakers to at least obscure the crack of her plasma bolts, or even her movement? NO, BUT the shrouded intruder seems totally unaware of her presence.
Is Bobby truly dead? YES, his corpse is laying on the ground in a pool of blood. Is his Uzi missing? NO, AND it's still on the ground in his hand, far from the leader. Even in this dim lighting, Dana's night vision allows her to try and assess what killed him. Tech / Medical comes up 8, exceeding a DC of 6; there's a bullet hole in his ribs, and his head is caved in. One of the staggered intruders is carrying a bloodied piece of pipe.
Dana tries to slip in, wanting her initial blast to count. She hopes shooting the robed individual might demoralize their strangely-acting accomplices. Her Stealth comes up 5 against DC 8; she's been spotted! A husky voice shouts from the hood of the robe, pointing toward the startled vixen: “Furry! Get her!”
ENCOUNTER BEGINS... due to the bizarre nature of the intruders, only the robed one draws initiative cards; all else act act after them and Dana. She draws a 5, and the intruder a 6. Even in the dark, Dana can tell this one's hand is a mottled red color... clearly inhuman. Pulling a worn revolver into view, they try to take a potshot at the fox...
…and nails a natural 20! Dana cries out in pain, taking 2 damage (base roll of 1); she can't help but feel that only adrenaline is keeping her from being felled from a similar shot to the chest as the guard! She doesn't try to avert her vengeance and fires right back. Roll of 20, hitting AC 6 and dealing 5 damage.
The room flashes briefly with a pale blue light, the intruder screaming as the cerulean bolt collides and bursts with their own chest! From the cinders of the robe Dana can tell two things: the enemy is wearing armor of piecemeal metal underneath, and their screams and shudders hint that they aren't fond of energy weapons.
The three other enemies all stagger toward Dana. Why have none of them tried to grab the dead man's gun? Attacks of 13 and 8 don't hit Dana's AC 5, but a 16 does: she suffers 3 more damage as one of them swings wild, walloping her with a lariat to rival a pro wrestler of old.
ROUND 2. Dana's HP is 8 out of 13; her Vengeful flaw has shifted to her last aggressor, Intruder B. Is anyone else coming to try and help her? YES. Hearing the commotion, a tech cultist armed with a laser pistol is making their way downstairs, and will act on his own initiative card. For sake of ease, they will be counted as a 1st Level Scrounger, using the premade NPC stats from Other Dust.
Dana draws a Jack, the robed one a 2, and the tech cultist a King. Just as Dana begins to run from the approaching rabble, a flash of scarlet light bursts onto the scene! Barely hitting Intruder A (14 versus AC 8), the red laser's beam sears away 5 HP's worth of rib meat. Needless to say the teen buckles under the burning heat, trying to slump toward Dana still.
Wanting to finish off the foe in front of her, Dana exerts herself to push past her wrath. She spends 1 point of Strain to target Intruder A instead of B, and opens fire! 17 hits AC 8 and deals 7 damage, ending the troubled youth's short life in a spray of spattered skull.
With the arrival of backup, the shrouded attacker throws back his hood for better aim. To the horror of Dana and the tech cultist, the short and portly man has a second mouth across his forehead! An attack of 2 misses wild against the cultist (AC 7), hitting the door frame that the techie ducks behind. The remaining enemies try to wail on Dana again – both a 17 and 15 hit, as both pipe and fist beat her senseless for a total of 6 damage. Intruder B is the last to hit her, invoking her wrath.
ROUND 3. Dana's not doing so hot at 2 HP left. She draws a 10, the cultist 8, and the intruder... a Queen. Seeing the opportunity to end the vixen's life, he aims for her. Somehow he misses with a 12, the bullet cracking into wall she'd ran past a mere moment ago. Dana's head is bleeding from a swollen bump; she has to end this now. She forces herself to aim at the two-mouthed assailant, taking another point of Strain...
...but misses with a 10 against AC 6. Immediately the cultist gives her cover fire against the leader, but also misses with an 8 as the others start to stagger toward him! The pair of approaching enemies try to lay into him. However he manages to slip away and keeps a bead on the main enemy, with attack rolls of 7 and 5 whiffing wild.
ROUND 4. With 2 HP still and two shots left in her plasma cartridge, will Dana make it? She draws a 7, the tech cultist an Ace, and the robed menace a 6. Again the cultist shoots at the head intruder; again he misses (6 versus AC 6)! Dana runs closer to Bobby's bloodied remains, hoping to grab the submachine gun if all else fails, and squeezes off another plasma toroid toward the two-mouthed menace. Her blast of 8 misses as well, both laser and plasma juked away from with inhuman reflexes.
With a wicked sneer across both mouths, the robed one takes aim. Will this be the end of the Apocalypse Fox? Thankfully not, for a roll of 5 misses wild! As for his allies, both try to chase down the cultist... and succeed. One hits with a 17, smashing his pipe into the back of the cultist's head for 4 damage. As he collapses, the other starts to stagger toward Dana...
ROUND 5. Things are grim. Dana draws an 8, but her enemy gets an Ace. All seems lost, and he knows this as he fires his final round. But the vixen's lucky stars buy her time, for 8 doesn't hit her AC. The vixen barely knows how to work a ballistic gun, but who doesn't in her day and age? Because she's untrained, she takes a -1 to hit. All or nothing. Dana pulls the trigger, trying to mulch this foe with full auto fire; this will give her a +2 to hit and damage, but use three ammunition per shot.
Natural 20! With a ruthless cry she charges the foe as he shrinks back, trying to get a speed loader ready, but the hail of bullets is not stopped by his scrap armor. His body shudders as bullets punch through him for 10 damage (4 base damage plus Dana's +1 from DEX), and with a gurgling he falls dead onto the floor.
And surprisingly, for weal of survival but woe of mind, so too do the others adversaries...
End of Session: Dana has earned 300 XP by surviving the confrontation against four CR 2 foes, even if barely. As I'm pressed for time, will resolve the other matters (loot, if the cultist is dead on the spot, and more) next session.
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