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The Road Warriors


Asper Sarnoff

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The swing doors flew open with a loud screech of rusty metal. Every eye in the bar shifted over to take in this new element, trying to make out if the tall, lanky coyote that just stepped in was trouble, or could be ignored. There was no doubt, even among the most stupendously drunk ones, that this guy's middle name was trouble. He seemed to be in his early fourties, scarred from a tough life. Lacking most of his right ear, the tattered remains barely pooking out of the rough and gritty fur. A .357 revolver hanging by his side, and from how polished and worn the holster looks, it's seen lot of use.

The sound of a hammer being pulled back into firing position echoed trough the room. Some idiot got nervous.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." The coyotes voice was low, threatening, and coarse like gravel. The tension in the room was electrifying, but after a split second, the gun was put away. "Good boy." The coyote answered as he starts striding towards the bar. His long leather duster almost scraping the floor, every other step acompanied by a metallic clank.

He made his way to the counter, grabbed a glass of some indistinguishable and muddy liquid, and poured it all down his throat in one sip.

"I'm here to pick up my courriers." He grunts out, not turning to face the rest of the bar. "Step up!"

(Now, it's time to introduce your characters. This is the first impression, the first time we meet, and how we appear and act here, will shape our initial experiences of each other.)

There's some loud grinding as a chair gets pushed back over the dirty floor, and a large wolf steps out of the shadowy corner he was sitting in. He's big, about as tall as the coyote, but considerably bulkier, and a lot younger. At first glance, one'd guess he was in his mid-twenties, but after a closer look, one'd see the signs. The way he walked, acted, the amount of scars, the blue eyes lacking that dangerous inner fire the coyote gunslinger posessed. Still, people got out of his way. The all black leather outfit and the faint flicker of a sneer on his face spoke of a no-nonesense attitude, someone you'd be better of not crossing. The piece he was carrying was quite intimidating too. Most people would say the big .44 revolver was way too big and ungainly for pretty much anything, that you'd be better of with something smaller. But when hey thought of the prospect of staring down the barrel of that handcannon, their doubts semmed to vanish. He sent the coyote a silent nod, confirming to him what he allready knew.

The wolf silently took his place alongside the coyote, both now waiting for the other courriers to show up.

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Having his hopes of a bar fight/highlight of the day shattered, the tiger knew that the hollering coyote was his call and the ending of his drinking day. He discreetly tied up his hair in a ponytail, finished his remaining beer on one shot and slowly stood up and walked to the pair, trying to not call anyone's attention. The tiger knew he wasn't the biggest, the bulkiest or the baddest-looking, so passing by was easy enough for him, even if he was just one of the few felines in a bar full of canines and odd-looking reptiles and avians; but thought that it might harm his chances of a more confident, reliable first impression.

"It's gonna be a long, long day..." the feline said to himself and sat in front of the two canines, avoiding any eye contact he thought unnecessary, and awaited for anything they had to say.

"Steele, Steele Fusari" he said, apathetic.

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His footfalls hit the floor hard, and each step jangled with a cascade of small metal tools, odds, ends, and assorted nicknacks that at least half people in the room wouldn't be able to identify, much less know what their uses would or could be. He was neither tall nor short, but carried his sturdy frame with strength and control. The callused hands and labor-hardened physique suggested a life of monotonous toil, yet his keen, calculating eyes suggested a kind of ironic intelligence, smouldering with the fires of a forge. The shotgun slung across his back looked ordinary enough; similar weapons were carried by many people in these parts, and the ram's has had it's healthy use. And judging by the scars across the Ram's knuckles and the scratches and scrapes on his horns, he'd seen more than his fair-share of scraps, and knew how to come out of them in one piece.

"Alright then boss, I'm here." he said with a lively tone, in stark contrast against the still diffusing tension, "Terry Malloy's the name, but most just call me Tweak."

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(Srry for the wait. Got tied up. Asper, My car is the first link you posted to me - can I have it as-is? http://static.pagens...ick_Riviera.jpg )

A metallic click-click followed by the sheathing of a katana was the third answer to the call. The Cornerian Fox with the katana simply stared the cyote down from behind cold, lifeless eyes. His Steyr Aug A3 was across his lap, the Katana leaning against the seat, and his jacket - with "Marauder" stitched into the back - was thrown over the back of a chair. He got up and turned to face the Cyote, his Aug hoisted over his shoulder. His face was scarred - he had separate scars over both his eyes, a bullet scar on the left side of his forehead, a scar over the right side of his muzzle, lifeless brown eyes, brown fur with bald spots from more scars, and a fluffed, messy tail.

"If you need an escort, I'm at your service. Jason Anderson - though some know me by my call-sign, Marauder," he said.

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(Loose the guns, and it's all good.Smile-2.gif)

(Fixed) (Does that include your RP character as well, or is he a special case?)

(Edit: Fixed again :lol: )

Edited by chaos_Leader
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(Fixed) (Does that include your RP character as well, or is he a special case?)

(Oh, I shoud perhaps have specified that was regarding the 6 machine guns mounted on Star_Dragons vehicle.EmbarrassedLaugh.gif)

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The feline slightly eye-rolled on the sight of the other two courriers. Not meant to create animosity, but give a non-impression look instead.

"Fancying the big, sweet-sixteen worthy entries, aren't we?" He thought to himself.

(Dunno how this works, but wouldn't it be more comfortalbe if we move the current parenthesis to the discussion topic, Asper?)

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The room went quiet for a moment, everyone waiting to see if anyone else would step forward. Just when it seemed that there was no one else, the scraping of a chair being pushed back brought all eyes to a figure far in the back. He was wearing a black motorcycle helmet, and did not move to take it off and reveal himself. Instead, he silently picked his way through the crowd to join the group around the coyote. He didn't cut an imposing figure, he barely reached to the shoulders of some of the men there, but the shotgun strapped to his back said he was not someone to be taken lightly. He didn't say a word once he had approached, just waited quietly for his job.

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"Aren't we all just a chipper bunch?" Tweak stated with a healthy dose sarcasm, looking over the four stoic figures gathered around their employer.

"What about you little spooky-scrapper? You got a name?" He asked to the smaller figure in the helmet who'd just joined them, reaching a well-worn hand out to greet the newcomer "Let's not be strangers here..."

The silent figure's only response was to turn his head and stare at the ram through the dark, unfeeling visor of his motorcycle helmet.

"Okay then..." Tweak supplied with a shrug, and turned back to the older coyote, "Take it away, boss."

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(Don't worry about that Harlow. it's easier to solve minor issues in this topic.)

The coyote let his leering eyes glide over those who had assembled around him. From the mysterious biker, past the ram, the tiger and the fox, and finally stopping by the wolf, keeping his gaze for a second before he turned back to his drink again. "Pups and kids to do a mans job." He wheezed, his voice hoarse from the drink. He sighed out loud. "Good help is hard to find these days..." A couple coins appeared on the counter before he turned and headed for the exit. "Come with me, the bossman's not far."

Their eyes took a moment to adjust from the gloomy bar to the scorching sunligh outside. Dust was whirled up by the constant wind, forcing them to squint evne when the brightness wasn't as bad on their eyes anymore. Outside the bar was parked several vehicles. Rusty and grimy, but rugged, and most importantly, working.

The wolf threw a look over at the one furthest away, a dark Challenger, obviously pleased to see people were keeping away from it. "It's walking distance." The coyote muttered. "I have armed men watching over your cars. They'll be safe." The wolf grunted in response. "How we know they're not going to make off with them when you've gotten us far enough away?" His voice was surprisingly light, and didn't really match that well with the exterior. But it wasn't always that way.

The coyote twisted around, a sneer flickering over his lips. "Look, punk. If I wanted your car, I'd have shot you dead in your tracks long ago..." Somehow, it was hard to doubt those words."That job is more worth than you can imagine. More than your gun, your car, and your life. Doesn't that sound too sweet to resist?" The coyote said, rubbing his thumb and index together in the face of the wolf. "I dunno. I can imagine quite a lot." The wolf mumbled back. It did seems like he was convinced though, for the moment at least, because he immediatly added: "Lead on."

The town they found themself in was one of the countless suburbs that dotted the boundaries of Titan. This was where the most unfortunate banded together, squeezed in between the wild outrider gangs that ruled the plains, and the criminal "families" running the Titan underground, preying on and extorting those to weak to defend themself. Most houses were held together by generous use of steel wires, and corrugated plates patching up the numerous holes the enviroment had made in them.

In between the ramshackle shacks, big lumps of concrete dotted the landscape. Places that had been warehouses and industrial areas before the war. It was for one of these they were heading. Judging by the amount of large gates, one could draw the conclusion it used to be a fire station, or a truck workshop. One of said gates slowly started screeching open on rusty hinges as they drew near, and they followed the coyote inside, the gate closing behind them again.

They found themself in a large hall. Filled with scrap metal, auto parts, and a huge tanker parked a coupl aisles away.

"I'll go get the boss man. You stay here." the coyote grunted as he started climbing up a large metal staircase in the corner of the room, dissapearing trough a door at the top, leaving the five Road Warriors standing behind in utter silence.

The wolf, or Fenris as he was called, suspiciously eyed the others. So, these would be the people he'd work together with on this job? The thought feelt odd. He had alwasy worked solo before, but then, he had never worked on a job of this caliber before either. They all looked decent enough, none rubbed him the wrong way, yet at least. Save perhaps that biker dude. Wouldn't it be boiling hot with a fully enclosed helmet in this heat?

Well, if he was going to work with them, he should start learning who they were first. This was as good time as any.

"Name's Fenris." He said, not particulary loud, but it still echoed trough the large hall. As everyones attention turned to him, he feelt a sting of embarrassment, but surpressed it. "Keep in line, and pull the load with me, and I'll play nice too. But if anyone's thinking of double-crossing me out there and keep my share, then I'll bury you. Got that?"

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Jason stood deathly silent, as though in a trance. It looked as though he didn't even hear the wolf speak. He just stood there, Aug A3 in hand, katana strapped to his side, staring after the coyote that just left to get the boss.

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"Wow. Guess your social life must be thriving..." The tiger couldn't help to respond sarcastically to the wolf. Fenris' leering was enough for Steele to stop pushing buttons and get serious.

"'Case you didn't hear me at first, name's Steele....At least you look the saner than the other thre-" On that moment, his hair band broke; a sight that the feline had experienced more than the usual. "Shoot! Cheap piece of..." he thought to himself, ignoring the others' looks to his shoulder length hair.

Changing subjects, and speaking to everyone, Steele immediately added "Anyway, nice rides, people. Where you got yours?"

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"Nice setup you got here!..." Malloy complimented, eyes scanning and ogling the shop's equipment and amenities as the group entered. The enthralled, captivated demeanor the ram assumed at this point was bordering on 'Geeking out', but mercifully quiet. He only half-heard the coyote's curt response, and didn't come back to the discussion until Fenris addressed the group.

"Keep in line, and pull the load with me, and I'll play nice too. But if anyone's thinking of double-crossing me out there and keep my share, then I'll bury you. Got that?"

"Yeah yeah big fella, I get it." The ram replied offhand, "You're a tough-as-nails badass bigshot, and you won't take any flak nor tomfoolery. I know the drill."

He knew Fenri's type were commonplace in these parts and times, particularly among those that braved the desert wastes outside and lived to tell about it. Malloy had simply grown accustomed to that particular mindset to the point where he took that sort of grim bravado for granted--

"Shoot! Cheap piece of..." he thought to himself, ignoring the others' looks to his shoulder length hair.

Changing subjects, and speaking to everyone, Steele immediately added "Anyway, nice rides, people. Where you got yours?"

"If you're gonna have issues like that, maybe you ought to just hack of that mop on your head." the ram chided with a chuckle. It was all meant in good humor, friendly banter, even if others might've felt he was being forward.

"My rig is right where I parked it, of course..." Malloy said, answering the tiger's question, "at least it better be when I get back there."

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"If you're gonna have issues like that, maybe you ought to just hack of that mop on your head." the ram chided with a chuckle. It was all meant in good humor, friendly banter, even if others might've felt he was being forward.

"My rig is right where I parked it, of course..." Malloy said, answering the tiger's question, "at least it better be when I get back there."

"Tch, it was old anyways. I'm worried about the bling in your head..." He retorted. The feline was usually vocally defensive, but knew the ram meant no harm. Steele knew that when it comes to teamworking, wheter be a trusty ally or a double-crossing bastard, people always try to give a decent first imrpession.

"...Speaking of bling, the heck's with the shorty on a helmet?" He asked to the ram, lowering his voice.

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Steele heard the tiger's comment. in a different time and place, he would have had a something to say at the very least, but now his survival depended on his silence. Instead, he cast his eyes around, taking in every detail about his new comrades. God is in the details, after all. He wandered a little off, pretending to inspect the surroinding but really inspecting them.

He'd heard there names; the wolf was Fenris. He didn't seem to be highly dangerous, but appearances were decieving. The tiger was Steele. Unfortunate to be teamed up with a person who shared a name, but since he didn't once plan to tell anyone anything about himself, he doubted it would be a problem.

The ram though, the ram was hard to read. He seemed good natured but he looked like an AD witch doctor. Tweak, his name was? No that was only a nickname... best to keep a careful eye on him for now.

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"...Speaking of bling, the heck's with the shorty on a helmet?" He asked to the ram, lowering his voice.

"Dunno," Malloy replied just as quietly, "The main reason folks act all spooky like is if they got something to hide. I'll work with him, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna trust him before he comes clean, or at least takes off his head-bucket." the ram shot a glance toward the mysterious figure in question. Part of him hoped the helmet clad figure heard him, or caught the needle-like glance he gave. Spooks like him, no matter how inconspicuous or small, were always trouble. Then again, trouble sometimes ended up being the right kind of trouble. Time would tell.

In another instant, Tweak turned back to Steele, a lively glint in his eye.

"Hey, suppose we got little spooky and scarface here into a staring contest, who'd you bet on?" he asked jovially, referring to the patchwork fox with them who called himself "Marauder". It was in good comradery banter, but he also wanted to see the vulpine's reaction, and so better asses him.

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Jason ignored the comments of the others. He simply slung his Steyr Aug A3 and slowly drew his katana. Drawing a cleaning cloth from his sleeve, he began to clean the blade, as though this were an everyday encounter. The katana's blade shone dimly in the light, but Jason saw it was clean enough for his meticulous nature. In a deft move, he twirled the katana and sheathed it. He then unlimbered his Aug and continued waiting. As he waited, he mumbled something in Russian: "Vmeste my stenda; my vmeste voevatʹ." (United we stand; together we fight.)

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In another instant, Tweak turned back to Steele, a lively glint in his eye.

"Hey, suppose we got little spooky and scarface here into a staring contest, who'd you bet on?" he asked jovially, referring to the patchwork with them fox who called himself "Marauder". It was in good comradery banter, but he also wanted to see the vulpine's reaction, and so better asses him.

"Hard to tell when both can cheat..." Steele wanted to laugh, but restrained to keep professionalism and let just a slight jesting tone pass.

As he waited, he mumbled something in Russian: "Vmeste my stenda; my vmeste voevatʹ." (United we stand; together we fight.)

"Gesundheit..." the feline thought to himself...

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Jason looked over his shoulder to Steele, considered telling him off, but ultimately remained silent. His cold, lifeless brown eyes returned to where they originally were. To a lesser person, the mere sight of his cold stare was enough to make them shudder in fear. But these... "comrades" were different. Still, he stood silent, waiting to hear the details of the job. Anything that got him paid...

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Fenris cast a suspicious glance at the biker again. "You haven't spoken up yet ... friend. Someone cut your toungue?" He asked, walking up to him. "How about at least showing us a face, and let us be the judge on how honest it looks?" He lifted his arm, signaling that he wanted to take of the bikers helmet, but stopped short as he feelt something hard press against his gut. He looked down, seeing the twin barrels of the shotgun pretting into the leather of his jacket. He feelt a chill crawl down his spine, but managed to keep his cool. Show no weakness, ever. That was the single rule that keept people alive nowadays.

"I get it. Splatter my guts all over the floor if I touch your helmet." He lowered his arm and stepped back, a faint smile flickering over his lips. The biker didn't answer, no expression could be seen trough the tintet visor. Only after Fenris had taken a couple steps back was the shotgun put away.

Hmm, that one might be a bitch to work with. We'll see how it turns out.

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Jason kept silent, ignoring Fenris as he got a shotgun pressed into his gut. He felt his trigger finger twitch, so he made sure the safety of his Aug A3 was engaged, lest he have an accidental discharge. He hummed an odd tune to himself, seemingly lost in thought, his demeanor giving him a seemingly-unaware appearance. He slung his Steyr Aug A3, and placed a hand on his katana. He cast a look to Fenris - if short - and his dead eyes returned to where they originally were.

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Patience was bordering on "E" for the white feline.

"Hey dude! I'm not getting any younger, so get here and tell us what the hell are we going to do so you can pay me!" Steele blurted out while getting another head band on.

At this point, for their first impressions, he concluded that Fenris and Terry were workable. On the other hand, he thought Jason was one of the typical soulless, weird professionals and that the other biker guy, even when he almost shot the wolf in the spleen, still had to make a first impression. Steele thought of it as mandatory. The Mystery Guy act was getting really old really fast.

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Typical, Jason thought. Few had his patience. But then again, when it came to waiting for the mission brief, Jason was always patient. It was with... certain others that he had a short fuse. Very short. But it did not matter - not yet, anyway. For now, he was content to wait.

If only to pass the time, Jason unlimbered his Steyr Aug A3, took the safety off, and began wandering around a bit, as though he were looking for something - or someone - to shoot.

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