Filed under: Game Posts
Mason slips through the gaping hole in the rusted chainlink fense and makes his way around the back of the large building. Its ancient brick walls have been scorched by hundreds of years of viscious sand. Parts of it crumble in on themselves and some of the walls have completely erroded away, but the majority of the hardy building remains standing. In the rear of the factory is what used to be some sort of supply yard. All that remains now are the skeletal remnants of various types of twisted, metal structuring. A heap of junk sits in the middle of the small field, presumedly once a piece of heavy machinery.
Mason steps through the threshold of the large factor door and into the dark inards of the building. Rays of bright light cascade from the portal behind him, illuminating the dusty loading bay. His memory tells him to make his way through the hallway to the right towards the large warehouse area. If there is anyone here who might be able to help him out, the best place to look would be the makeshift dancefloor.
As he rounds the corner and into the hallway, he feels a body slam up against him and throw him against the wall. A filthy smelling thug in a tattered long coat presses Mason into the brick wall and slips a sharply jagged, rusty blade to his throat, apply just the slightest amount of pressure. The mutated man grips tightly to Mason’s shirt, staring at him with his one good eye. The bad eye, which is simply repulsive to look at, appears as a bulbous sack of puslating flesh. It is swollen beyond belief and buldging ever so close to Mason’s face.
“The Deck, your money, and your drugs. Quick, if you know what’s good for ya!” the man’s breath wreaks of cheap synthetic liqour, and the sores on his lips quiver when he speaks.
Mason, you’re being accosted by some mutie freak. He wants all your stuff, and he looks like he means business. You’d bet he’s got some kind of hellish disease. What do you do?
Ako and Tank step up to bar as they watch Kaphred head over to talk to the techie near the back. Tank holds up two fingers as the two slide onto a few old stools. The bartender nods and, a moment later, he returns with two glass mugs that actually appear clean. Both mug is filled to the brim with some kind of thick, nearly black ale. Despite its ridiculously bitter taste and the slight tingly feeling you get in your cheeks after a gulp, it’s cold and therefore good.
Ako and Tank each purchase a drink. Two credits apiece.
“I…uhh…” the nerdy kid stammers for a moment, taken aback by Kaphred’s comment. “I was just about to change that!” he yelps in a whiney, defensive tone.
“Oh, I don’t believe he meant much harm.” says a deep voice from the shadowy booth in the very back corner, just a few feet away from where Kaphred stands.
The nerd glances over his shoulder towards the origin of the sound, before spinning back to glare at Kaphred. The young, pimply blonde kid with the overly thick glasses huffs for a moment, then violently stands up out of his chair, sending it tumbling backwards as he storms out of the bar.
“Kaphred, is it?” the voice says, just before a cigarette lighter sparks up, revealing the scarred face of DeAngelo. His eyes, pale white orbs covered in thick webs of tiny red veins, glitter in the flickering fire that ignites a stubby cigar.
“Have a seat. Ako, and Johnathan too.”
Your best assumption is that this is DeAngelo. It would appear that his face is severly scarred by dozens of lacerations across his face. His eyes are a pale white, ghostly and stern. It would seem he’s been waiting for you. He even knows your names. What do you do?
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