Fallout: New Dead City

K

KillgoreKillmore

It Wandered In From the Wastes
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“…I’m a bad, bad man and I’ve done some horrible things in my life. May God forgive me for all the men I’ve killed. They were good men….and in my greed…in my rage…I took their lives away…..Oh Lord…please….please….save them…from the evil in me.” ~Killgore


Killgore didn’t have to be a seasoned veteran to realize he was being followed. He had realized there was somebody on his six for two days now. He was on his way back home to the Commonwealth and to the ruins of Old Boston.

“First I had to way out of the way to find that man and then he put up one hell of a fight. Damn,” Killgore thought to himself as he cradled his ribs, That guy sure had plenty of fight in him but I think I’ll live through this.”

His ribs were bruised and maybe broke but the pain wasn’t a problem for Killgore. He was used to all sorts of punishment. Like his uncle used to say, he was built to take a beating. With his particular skill set it was no surprise of what occupation he performed. Killgore was employed as what’s known as a Man Hunter, a specific type of Bounty Hunter who specialized in capturing and locating high-risk bounties. He had been doing the job for a while now and had taken in over 200 bounties alive, with twice that taken in dead.

With things being the way they were back home, he had to take on more bounties from the people in charge of Old Boston; A philanthropically group known as The Institute. The Institute was formed by those with larger brains and intellects than Killgore or anyone he had ever had the chance to meet. The folks in charge had all sorts of technology that they recovered and even ones they had invented.

The Institute, back up in Old Boston, had contracted him for such a dodgy job that he almost turned it down. They didn't give him much to go on just that he was going to go looking some tall slender bald guy who just so happened to be a damn expert sniper. Killgore preferred to do his business at a closer range. It…allowed him the luxury of stealth. For his size, he was surprisingly agile able to walk quietly enough to get the jump of plenty of his marks.

In the end, however, he took the job because the pay was so great it was more caps than most people see in a life time.
1000 caps with 200 up front and 800 on delivery and the pay was so much that Killgore had to ask twice. He went out to the local Arms dealer in South Boston and picked himself up a good Remington 870 shotgun with just the basic ammunition. He had hoped that he would not have to use it.

Unfortunately when Killgore finally tracked the mark down, he had to wage a one man war all the way through a dozen armed raiders. Killgore snuck through most of them and hacked the rest to bits with his faithful machete before encounter the mark. He found his mark and he was damn strong, stronger than a junkie on a psycho binge, the only thing he could compare that guy to was a super mutant. Killgore got thrown through the wooden floor boards and down two flights before he came to a stop.

He had thought he was dead and in his shattered display he thought he might at last find solace.

As he lay there on death’s door he couldn’t help but think of his dear brother Benjamin. His brother was a sore topic of discussion and he usually didn’t talk about him or even think about him. The guilt was too much for him. He lay there clinging to life and as if his brother was standing over him, bent down and reached for him.
“Get up. Get up Thadeus. We need you. ..I need you,” whispered Ben.

Killgore was probably hallucinating from a drunken stupor….

“Enough with the past, I just want to get home before something does kill me,” Killgore thought to himself.

He was usually careful when it came to setting up camp for the night. He always took the long way around so he would stay out of sight but he took a chance and instead of heading north to the Catskills he decided to head through Old York. He had only been this way once and most of the area was still undiscovered. He had came through Old York about three years ago when he was a caravan guard.

Killgore stood flatfooted a 6 foot even, weighing just under two hundred pounds and as strong and tough as nails. He was clad from head to toe in leather. He had seen a lot of combat in his 27 years out there in the wastes. He had made a name for himself as a mercenary for hire and often times a bounty hunter. He was very good at what he did. He knew the area somewhat from stories from his Father and his Uncle when he was just a boy. He had heard stories of a castle that had survived the war and how it was the safest place in the entire city. He had also heard of a place where all the bad people got sent to die, it was called a Prison.


Killgore had looked through his bag and it was no shock to him that he was almost out of supplies. He had three Bottles of clean Drinking water, Two cans of Pork and Beans, 3 sticks of Molerat Jerky, a bottle of Whiskey, two rolls of duct tape, a small first aid kit, a can of pre-war energy soda known as Zing-Cola, and a tin of twenty Mentats. He had eaten all the fresh vegetables he had brought with him and even ate the five packs of noodles ha had brought with him on his mission five weeks ago.

Killgore found a intact gas station that was surrounded with what he assumed were non-nuclear powered cars. Being the ever cautious and already knowing that he was being followed he decided to double back using a tactic he read out of a book he had found on an old Army Base. The sun was already setting and it was getting dark out and definitely not safe to be outside. The windows were boarded up on the gas station and the front door was barred shut. Killgore managed to open up the garage door enough to climb inside. It was dark inside and he couldn’t see his own hands in front of his face.
But suddenly-


-BAMMM!


Killgore jumped in surprise. He could see through the dirty window on the door to the garage that there was something out there and whatever it was it wasn't alone.

“ Just my luck!" shouted Killgore as he threw his body against the door trying to hold it down.
 
“…I’m old, I’m slobby, and I don’t like people telling me what to do. That said excuse me while I take this shot of psycho.”

Roy smiled as he dug through a pile of rubbish and found himself a unused Jet inhaler.

“Ah, the simple pleasures in life,” said Roy as he brought the inhaler up to his lips and giving it a kiss,” The rush of a good hit of Jet does wonders for the mind.”

Roy was an oddity out here in Old York. He was more at home in Hell’s Kitchen with the rest of his kind but he was too much of a free spirit to remain there with those idiots in charge. The Legion were shrouded in secrecy pretending to be some clandestine group but in reality, they were just a few ghouls trying to stay alive. The last time Roy had been to Hell's Kitchen he heard that Icarus had uncovered some pre-war nuclear submarine and were using to bask in the radiation.

The Legion were run by a bunch of crazed lunatics. Icarus was a man with his head in the clouds dreaming bigger than his wallet could handle. He told Roy that he had "plans" and that they were going to save the world someday. Roy didn't believe him. The only thing Roy believed in was the concrete world. Icarus was somebody important before the war and the Ghouls with half a mind remembered him for that. Achilles was the one in-charge of managing the feral ghouls. He was trying to cure the insanity or something another. Roy had heard about another guy but wasn't sure in the rumors were true. They said that the last guy Perseus had walked all the way from Anchorage after the war. Roy smacked himself in the forehead and muttered, " Ain't nothing more than freaks."

“To hell with those assholes!,” thought Roy as he dusted himself off,” I’m way better off own my own!”

Roy thought about saving the jet he had just found but then with the fact he was coming down already from a rather potent hit of jet he had taken earlier he took the inhaler up to his mouth and took a breath of that putrid goodness. Roy wobbled for a second getting used to feeling again before he fell straight on his ass and started giggling. In his state of euphoria he remembered what he was doing before he had taken time out to dig the trash. “OH SHIT-“

-BANG BANG BANG BANG!

As bullets whizzed past his head he got up and made a break for the next piece of cover. He peaked behind him as he took off like a bat out of hell. Two men, wearing leather and wielding assault carbines, were chasing after him.

“Come on man, you’re gonna ruin ma’ high!” he shouted as he dove for cover behind a dumpster.

One of the men shouted back at Roy,” Give it up Roy, we see you. Now just give up and come back home.”

“Home?,” shouted Roy,” I ain’t going back to the box! I’m a free ghoul! Fuck You-“

“Fuck me Roy?” said a voice.

Roy shifted his eyes to the end of the barrel of the .357 revolver that was now pressed harshly against his forehead. Roy forced a grin and shrugged his shoulders. It was Max, an acquaintance of Roy’s and what could be said his owner. Max was some Lieutenant or something in the Black Bears and a well known drug dealer. Max used Roy’s knowledge to help him make more potent chems and use him as a lab rat for some of Max’s homemade brews.

“Now, now Roy, let’ have some manners. You’re coming back home.”

Roy stood up gracefully with the revolver against his head.

“Now get in the truck Roy.”

“Sure thing Max,” Said Roy as he walked over, giggling fhis or a second to himself,” Just when I thought I was free, you keep pulling me back in Max! Pulling me back in!”
 
Syphon sat in the main room stinking of a homegrown smoke and vile Rutgut. An ate-up Jet whore in her mid fourties was dancing retardedly infront of him and it left Syphon curious where the usual young talent was at. She flaunted a ragged out face of wrinkles and scabs and sores so putrid that his laugh at her pathetic existance was echoed. The place was dead. Besides for a few punks who shot dice over a pool table top, it was perticularly empty for a Friday night.

The guy who dealt with powder wasn't here, Syphon thought.
Well damn man, I only come into town once but every two three weeks if not another town. Fuck man, I'll never get dope, Syphon relented in disappointment.

He excused himself of the poor event and smoked a cigarette outside. It just eery outside like it was inside. There was not that many junkies scurrying around. Not alot of peddlers or tricks. Not too many thugs neither. It was just eery.
 
Killgore ran a strategy over in his mind quickly.

“I’ve got an idea,” thought Killgore as he peaked over his shoulder into the darkness.

He jumped back in a flash and rolled into the shadows. Outside, two men went to yank the door open but stopped and hesitated. Bewildered the one man motioned to the other to stand back with the torch as he crawled over in an attempt to open the door. Both men were bald, average height and wearing leather vests with big bear heads snarling and the words, “Black Bears” underneath.

“Jeb, be careful. You know what they say about this guy,” said Merl as he tried to get a good look through the grimy windows on the door.

“Just shut up and stand back and try not to get in my way. As long as I get my hands around his neck, ya know he’s as good as dead” said Jeb as yanked the door up.

It was quiet like the calm before a storm. The door gave way after a few tries and slid open with a screech, but there was nothing there. Only the darkness, not the darkness that surrounded Killgore but the darkness inside his soul.


“Killgore! We know your in here! Give yourself up!” shouted Merl as he pulled out his switchblade. He laughed to himself and cracked his fists before putting his two sets of brass knuckles on.

It was eriee with something unsettling that just sent shivers up Merl's back. He knew something wasn't right. They weren't hunting a man...they were hunting a monster.

Without hesitation and without a drop of mercy, Killgore stepped from the shadows with shotgun in hand and said,” You brought a knife to a gun fight.” Killgore pulled the trigger and with his lightening fast reflexes unloaded five shells through the air and sent a hail storm of lead flying. Jeb was dead for sure. His face got hit the worst, in the end he didn’t even have a head.

Merl only got hit in the arm but the fact that his partner just got turned into a pile of flesh sent him screaming and he barely felt his arm. Merl fell to the ground in pure terror.

“Who are you?!” shouted Killgore as he reached into his pocket pulling out a few loose shells.

“…OH SHIT! JEB? JEB?! Jeb’s dead! You killed him!” said Merl as he hyperventilated,” You fucking killed him!”

Killgore loaded three shells and slung the shotgun over his shoulder. He reached down to his boot and pulled his machete out and sliced it through the air.

“If you don’t answer my question, you’re gonna be just like Jeb, except you’re gonna scream a whole lot more than he did.”

“Come on man!” pleaded Merl for his life,” This was just business, you don’t need to get mad about this!”

“Mad? Mad? Animals get mad. People get angry. I…get creative and I can think of something fairly good right now,” said Killgore as he stepped up to the raider.

Killgore stomped down hard against Merl’s chest and took one look at Merl’s arm. It wasn’t lethal but it might be if it got infected. Killgore smiled. He swung the machete up into the air and chopped with a bit of difficulty through Merl’s arm. The man's bone cracked like a plane of glass. Easy for someone in such a state of rage to do.

Merl’s eyes grew so wide that Killgore could see his own reflection in them. He could see the monster he had become. He used to be man of faith and conscience who protect people but now he had grown bitter and jaded inside. If things could only go back to the way they once were-

-AAAAHHHHH!

“Shut up! I said SHUT UP!” shouted Killgore violently in a state of rage,” WHO ARE YOU?!”

The monster was loose from his cage.

“-OUR BOSS…Oh god my arm! I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die now and you killed me! “ screamed Merl. Killgore could see fear in the man's eyes," Fuck You Killgore You fucking murderer"

Merl could see through Killgore’s sunglasses and could see something sinister in his eyes. He regretted ever following him, Jeb was dead and he was next.

“Who is your boss!?” growled Killgore as he readied his machete again.

“-OH FUCK! FUCK! H…his name is Max! He’s a Black Bea-“ and those were the last words Merl ever said.

Killgore swung the blade and cleaved the man’s head off his shoulders and it landed on his own lap. The last thing he would ever see was his own severed body, quite a horrible way to die but far from the worst thing Killgore had ever done to man. It was only another vile act he would commit in his rage. He felt no remorse and inside, deep down where the good still hid away he was afraid that there was no limit to his heinous evil.

“…You’re next Max,” said Killgore as he rummaged through the two dead men’s corpses looking for loot.

Killgore pocketed the two sets of brass knuckles off the dead man's hand's. He also found some rad-x pills in Jeb's pockets, useful for trade but not much else out here. Killgore thought to himself about what he had just done...again. He knew that Lucifer had a special seat in hell for him when he died and then he remembered something he had read in a book when he was young.

“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster... for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you," recited Killgore as he stood covered in blood looking into the distance.

Killgore bent down and reached into his rucksack pulling out a soda bottle filled with green liquid. He twisted the top and gulped it down. It was known as Zing-Cola, a carbonated beverage created by a child company of Wes-Tek. It was mentats mixed with a cola base. It was harsh to the taste but it had so much...zing to it that it could keep you fueled and hyped for hours. Killgore rolled the bottle into the back of the garage and took a look around. This place had been picked clean. He grabbed the strap to his ruck and slung it over his shoulder. There were more out there, Killgore was sure of it, and they were headed his way.
 
Roy had found himself a comfortable corner in the back of the tarped over Pre-war Transport Truck and laid back enjoying the rush of the jet. He had a habit of remembering things easier whenever he was tripping his ass off. To somebody watching him in the back of that old Truck they would have seen a ghoul laughing silently to himself with glazed over eyes.

Roy sung to himself,” I pushed my soul in a deep dark hole and then I followed it in. I watched myself crawlin out as I was a-crawlin in. I got up so tight I couldnt unwind, I saw so much I broke my
mind-“

Max sat across from Roy staring at him idly taking drags from the lit cigarette in his hand. Max was a scrawny looking guy with thin long brown hair who had left more marks on his arms than he did on the world. Roy had known Max for, was it ten or twenty years now? Roy rubbed his chin with his cheesy grin and leaned forward from his comfy warm spot.

“Max, you got anything?” propositioned Roy as he reached into his bag pulling out a handful of loose bottle caps.

Max smiled and took a harsh drag and reached into his pocket,

“Roy, you don’t have to pay me. You know this shit is as much mine as it is yours,” said Max as he slapped Roy on the back.

Max pulled out a bottle of pills and placed them in Roy’s open hand. It was a small bottle with a dozen red and white disks. The label read "Candy Cane Mentats".

“Try these Roy, I brewed up some special mentats from that stuff you left in the lab before you ran away,” said Max as he took a few of them from Roy’s hand before he swallowed the entire bottle.

These were stronger than regular mentats that when taken gave the user the illusion that things were happening slower. Details became so apparent that it was like they were staring you in the eyes and they lasted a few hours longer than the regular shit. Max was quite proud of these little pills. They were selling 10 pills for 40 caps or 20 for 60 caps which was a huge profit considering how easy they were to brew up. Compared to Roy, Max was a beginner when it came to brewing up some dank shit.

"Roy, you have got to stop running away, you know I'm the only one who can protect you. You know the rest of the bears want to just shoot you dead. I thought we were friends Roy?" said Max as he flicked the ashes off the cig.

Roy's eyes rolled to the back of his head. For a few seconds he gagged but took a drink from a bottle of water. Even being a ghoul, to take so many chems would kill normal ghoul, but Roy was far from just a run of the mill ghoul. All the decades of chem abuse had given him immortality of sorts. No amount of of drugs could kill the party animal. Roy crawled back up into his spot and waited for them to kick in. These were some of his most favorite things he had ever made.

"I'm sorry Max, I don't know what I was thinkin'. I guess I was...oh yeah....This is some great shit," said Roy before he lost his lucidity.

The truck came to a sudden stop but Roy didn’t notice as he was in the full midst of a drug fueled journey into his own psyche. Max looked alarmed and stood up.

“Why did we stop?” said Max as he reached for the 9mm stashed in the wasteband of his pants.

“Boss, Merl and Jeb found the guy they were tracking. What do you want them to do? “ said the driver.

Max rubbed the scruff on his chin, the mentats had taken effect. Everything was clear and precise. He tossed a few ideas around inside his old noggin. The risk of going in under manned to grab the guy or should they go for the element of suprise? Max chose the later of the two choices.

“Tell them to hang tight and I want you to turn around and go after them,” said Max," Radio over and get us some support, tell them we found the guy who killed Turbo."

Max flicked the ash off the end of the cigarette and finished it in one long drag. Max's luck was looking good, he recovered his Chemist and he found another profit. It might not have meant much to the others but Turbo was a good friend, well not friend...and not even good, he was more of a reliable customer than anything. A couple years back he had heard Turbo had some scheme of knocking over caravans, guess Turbo had put the wrong man in his cross-hairs. When they eventually found what was left of him, he was lying in five distinct pieces with a steel fire ax wedged deep in his chest. It was nasty and cruel and the Black Bears decided to investigate what had happened there.

They figured out who was on that caravan and looked into the name Killgore and found a laundry list of murder and homicide longer than the Hudson River. The records indicated he was a mercenary for hire but Max knew evil. He knew that the Man Slayer was worth alot of caps but more importantly than that, he was worth notoriety and that was worth more to the Black Bears than all the caps in the wasteland.
 
Syphon spotted a down-trotted young boy walking slowly through the shadows, going god knows where.

"Hey kid, yeah you, come 'ere", Syphon said as nicely as he could.

"Yes sir?"

"Where the hell is everybody?" Marshall said as he knelt down to the boys eye level.

"Ain't ya heard mister? There's a big ol' prison across the river.. Better be careful or they might get ya"

Syphon handed him five caps and went on his way, back infront of the sleezy brothel. Come to think of it, alot of people were gone Syphon thought.
 
“…Sometimes, the monster breaks free and no matter how hard I pull the chains he drags me along with him. I cannot stand my ground against such an evil. I’ve been fighting the beast my entire life and I’m tired of fighting back. ”Killgore

Killgore crept through the shadows, trying his best to stay out of sight. He had snuck past a five man patrol of Black Bears a few minutes ago. He didn't get a great look but he made a mental note that they were following a definite tactic of search and destroy. Whenever he had downtime Killgore made a habit of reading books, he found comfort in books with practical knowledge like how to construct traps using twine and a bouqet of grenades and how to rig a trip wire.

"Why the hell am I even thinking about books?" whispered Killgore as he dove past a mailbox.

The streets were empty mostly, the only thing he could see occasionally on every other block was a thug.

"I could have sworn that last time I was here, there were droves of dogs running around the city,"thought Killgore as he came into an alleyway.

There was a manhole cover hidden underneath some trash scattered all around. Down below the city was a spider web of tunnels and sewers that were inhabited by scavengers but also something much more sinister. He had never seen one of the fabled Rad Gator but just a chance encounter was more than he was willing to spare. He was wasting too much time here in this alley. He kept his head down and ran out of the alley.

Killgore kept a breakneck pace through the crowded alleyways. He was moving quick but dragging his feet. He had done it again but he wasn’t surprised though, just disappointed in himself. It gave him the feeling that he wasn’t meant to have a normal life. He shook his head and rid himself of his weary thoughts. He was in hunted by the Black Bears.

“-Retribution, “ muttered Killgore as he climbed through an empty window of the corvalis he had chosen to stay in for the night.

He threw his ruck into the seat next to him. He had climbed atop of a highway overpass and found himself on a quarter mile of tarmac high above the city, it was much safer up here than down below where the Bears would be looking. Killgore reached into his ruck and pulled out a tin mentats. He popped two red disks. He couldn’t remember a whole lot about the Bears on account the last time he been through Old York, he was too busy keeping his eyes on the pretty lady merchant than his eyes on the road. He was careless and got the other two guards killed.

“Death and danger follow me like my shadow,” Thought Killgore as he loaded the last two shells from his pocket into his shotgun,”
Why the hell did I not grab some extra ammo when I had the chance?”

It was no use kicking himself about it. He’d find more ammo on the bodies of the men who came after him. He shook his head and turned his eyes to the horizon. Out in the harbor he saw a huge pre-war boat. It sat out there in the harbor waiting just like he was waiting right now. Waiting for day break so he could get out of this god forsaken city.

----

The transport truck drove slowly through the cleared streets with a dozen armed men around it. They had seen Killgore running this way. Max took another cigarette from his pack and snapped his
lighter open.

“I’m coming Killgore.”
 
Max started to tap his feet in a unpredictable pattern. He was nervous that he hadn’t heard anything from Jeb or Merl in half an hour. He stood up and kicked the bench.

“Damn it, those two-“

Roy coughed and looked up from his stupor, ”What’s going on Max?”

“Nothing Roy, go back to sleep,” assured Max as he sat back down.

“…gotcha Boss,” said Roy before he laid back down.

Jeb and Merl were both cap-a-dozen thugs without any knack of common sense. A week earlier Max’s friend Delmar had sent those two his way and they had been all kinds of trouble since. Jeb had a questionable history and was unreliable. Jeb was once part of some smaller Raider outfit down south who frequented The Pitt. From how Max understood it, Jeb claimed he had killed a super mutant brute with his own two hands. Jeb was 6’ 7’’ and thick as a brahmin. His head was shaved clean and he had a thick ginger hearty beard. He might have been a little slow in the head but he was LOYAL and that was the only thing Max required from his gang. Merl was scrawny but smarter than he looked. Merl was older than most of the thugs he ran with but his wisdom paid off in the end. He hadn’t lived 45 years being an idiot. Merl was Jeb’s conscience and kept him from going off and killing people he didn’t agree with.
Max’s friend Delmar had just finished with a huge shipment of chems to Philly and was headed back upstate to resupply. Delmar had gotten word through the buffalo gourd vine that Killgore was headed to the city and sent two of his associates to warn Max. Max appreciated the kindness and sent a dozen men after Killgore.

“…Driver! I want you to radio Merl and see what’s going on!” shouted Max over the loud engine.

“Will do Boss!” replied the driver.

---

KILLGORE had fallen asleep with one eye close. He had passed out a few minutes prior. He wasn’t going to sleep well, he never did with the nightmares. The faces of all the men he was sent to capture but instead he killed. It started off as an accident, he meant to shoot a man in the leg to slow him down but ended up hitting him in the artery and the man had nearly bled out by the time he got to him. The man had just a ounce of fight left in him and tackled Killgore to the ground. Killgore saw the man’s eyes and saw a man fighting for his life. Killgore tossed around on the ground pushing the man off of him and into a pile of rubble.

He never forgot that man’s name, “ Daoss.”

He threw the man a good two feet away and landed with a slice of rebar straight through the back of his head and out his eye. Damn gruesome.

“It was an accident…the first one.”

After that he started taking on more dangerous bounties trying to make a name for himself but every man he went after had done something so evil that Killgore could not let them get away...and in his rage he slaughtered them. He became so emotionally taxed by his work that the monster grew stronger and stronger every time he let it out.

Killgore continued to catch up on his sleep. The beast inside was appeased for now. But the nightmares would continue. Even when he opened his eyes, he sometimes still saw the horror. He needed the sleep though. He hadn’t slept more than 10 hours in the last week.

He caressed the shotgun in his lap in his sleep. The city was quiet.

Meanwhile…

---

“Boss we found Jeb and Merl,” shouted the driver as he pulled into the gas station.

“Oh yeah?” said Max as he hopped out the back of the truck,” Where are they?”

That question didn’t need an answer on account Max could see where they were. Everywhere and in pieces. “Damn,” thought Max as he took a harsh drag,” Another man dead?” Of course they were dead. Max walked over to the bloody mess that used to be Merl. Poor guy. He knelt down and picked up Merl’s head. He took one look at all the blood and gagged. The smell was horrible. He took one look and confirmed it was Merl. “Yup, that’s Merl all right,” whispered Max.

“-BOSS! JEB’S STILL ALIVE!” shouted one of the other men.

Max put the head down and walked over to Jeb.

“Damn Jeb, you ain’t looking so good,” said Max as he took a knee.
Jeb’s was missing half a face but it didn’t stop the look in his remaining left eye. He didn’t have to force out the words for Max to know what he was feeling.

“-Ma…We fo…em,” gurgled Jeb.

Max turned to one of his medics,” Fix him up with a couple shots of slasher and get him on his feet.”

The medic nodded, “Eh…I don’t know about that Max. I don’t th-“

“Don’t you dare say that out loud,” sad Max as he grabbed the medic’s hand,” You better choose your next words carefully.”

“Eh, sure thing boss," said the medic as he picked through his bag taking out supplies," Hey you, I need your help."

Another man walked over to help him and Max grabbed Jeb's hand.

“Don’t you worry Jeb, we’ll get you up and running again. I’m gonna let you have first dibbs on the Man Slayer.”

Jeb began to weep a single tear.

“…Tha….you.”

Max stood up and looked over to Merl," Somebody clean up that mess."

The deathclaws was circling their prey and closing in.
 
"Nah bro, ten for it"

"Man forget it then".

"You gonna give it to me for ten or I'm gonna fuck you up!", Syphon hissed harshly as he stood up into the mans personal space.

"Fuck you cronie", the jet dealer barked as he shoved Syphon, but the man was already cooking the shiv in his palm. Jimmy the dealer, who dawned a classic Bears attire, pulled for his piece as Syphon crept into his chest with a five-inch mark. Again and again until the ill-advised dealer softened up and fell onto his back, wide eyed and opened mouthed.

Syphon shuffled through the pockets of the Black Bear, as he knelt in the twilight of the dark road. He chuckled as he pulled a large bag of inhalers from the deadmans jacket, wrapped in rubberbands and trashbags. Giggling like a hyenea, Syphon ducked off into the darkness..

 
[ROY] was tripping so hard when he came out of his slumber that he could have sworn he was a smoothskin. Despite the fact most ghouls hated the condition they found themselves in, slowly decaying like walking corpses, Roy enjoyed being a ghoul.

It was so much easier out in the wastes when you didn’t have to worry if it was safe to eat scavenged food. Roy could always just eat what he found, have a small stomach ache and get over it. It was great. After a few moments Roy realized he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

It was a harder life than he would care to admit. The persecution and the prejudice from others took any appeal he might have once had for being a Ghoul and cast it aside. He had enough with the dream, it was time to wake up.

Roy sat up and looked around. They had stopped somewhere. His mind was still fuzzy from the mentats wearing off. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an inhaler of some of his special blend “Rocket” jet. He took the hit and threw the empty inhaler on the ground as he climbed out of the back of the truck. He held his breath for as long as he could almost passing out before exhaling, to maximize the effect of the Rocket.

He pulled back on his left sleeve and revealed a machine attached to his wrist. It wrapped around and had a screen with buttons and knobs and a Geiger counter. Written in faded gold paint the words, “…Pip Boy 3000C and Vault 53…” That was a lifetime ago but it felt like yesterday though.

Roy came from Vault 53, a vault where everything was cheap and broke down easily. Eventually after 20 years after the war when they were still waiting for the radiation to clear, the Vaults water chip, air circulators and just about everything shut down. Roy worked in the lab back then….

Stupid pip boy’s broke and cant even figure out how far I got away this time

“Boss, what’s going on?” said Roy.

“We’ve got some injured men here, Roy, do you have anything on you for the pain? Jeb seems to have come down with a mild case of shot in the face.” Said Max sarcastically.

Roy nodded and started rummaging through his first aid bag. It didn’t take long before he pulled out what appeared to be a small red vial and an empty syringe. He had brewed up a concoction using a stimpak, some med-x, and some buffout to produce what he called “Red Lightning”.

“Here boss,” said Roy as he drew 30cc’s into the needle, “Hit him in the arm and it should kick in momentarily.”

Roy had nothing to gain from letting the man die. Ever since he had become a ghoul all those decades ago, Roy had stopped helping people but he still valued the price of life, be it a ghoul or a human. Unfortunately, that concoction of Red Lightning was weaker than the stuff he typically brewed up but he didn’t have all the ingredients to make it the special strength that he liked.

“Boss, I’m gonna’ go take a look around and see if-“ said Roy.

“-No can do Roy, you know you’re going to try and make a run for it so just give up. If you want to do something then go help the medic load Jeb onto the truck,” said Max as he threw the cigarette butt on the ground, stomping it out as he climbed into the front of the truck.

“…Sure…thing….boss.”

He was tired of being bossed and decided that this was the last time they would ever catch him.
 
[KILLGORE] was asleep for the first time in days and had hit it hard. He was no longer sleeping with one eye open but still jumpy and on edge as always. Outside the corvega he had chosen to use as a fort, atop the collapsed section of highway, there was a breeze tearing through the car sending chills up his spine. Even though he was cold, his jacket kept him warm enough. It was close to morning and Killgore was running short of his advantage. The hunters were closing in and Killgore was oblivious to the fact.

---

[ROY] sat next to the medic in the back of the transport truck with the wounded Jeb passed out. Luckily for Jeb, two men were willing to give him some blood. It wasn’t sterile but the medic’s supplies were decent enough to get the job done thanks to some antibiotics the medic had in his bag.

Roy noticed the medic was sloppy, most likely due to the lack of proper training out here in the wastes. He could see dozens of ways to more efficiently treat the patient but he kept quiet. He was probably one of the last educated Doctors around but he would rather use his knowledge to get high than to help anyone besides himself. Selfish to the core. He had already gave Max his last dose of Red Lightning and was annoyed that he kept being so nice. He was usually a hassle to deal with and had to be coerced into doing anything that didnt benefit him in some way.

He reached into his pocket and took out another inhaler of Jet. He took a harsh long hit before tossing it out of the moving truck. The Rocket still heavily in his system and the jet mixed giving him a slight feeling of uneasiness. He started jittering in his seat.

“What the hell is he hunting?” muttered Roy as he kicked his feet up on the bench,” This is boring out here.”

“Calm down Roy, we’re almost done here,” said Max through the passenger window-

“We found him boss!” came over the radio.

“Floor it!” shouted Max as the truck tore through the streets,”
You’re mine Killgore.”

---

[KILLGORE] opened his eyes to the noise of footsteps off in the distance. He didn’t move but sat there opening one eye slowly. The shotgun lay in his lap and he hesitantly made his way to the trigger. He could make out a figure about 30 feet away. He predicted one of two possible outcomes. One being, he would get the jump on on whoever this was and pump his remaining shells into them and make an escape or he would sit there and wait for death.

“I wait for no man,” thought Killgore.

Killgore rolled out of the seat and took a knee with the shotgun pointed at the figure. He looked down the sight and re-aimed for the figure’s high center chest. If he was quick enough he would be able to get the shot off before he got cornered. He pulled slowly on the trigger.

“Put it down Man Slayer,” said a voice.

He was not alone anymore. He could see over two dozen leather clad raiders surrounding him. He was good, but he was not an invincible however he might have believed. He dropped the shotgun and gave in. Maybe he could reason with these people.
He hoped-

-CLINK!

The collar snapped around his neck. He knew what had happened. A bomb collar strapped around his neck was not the place he wanted to be in.

“Killgore. You’re my prisoner now,” said the long haired leather clad raider,” Play nice and you’ll live longer.”

“Like I have a choice? Who are you?” said Killgore as he bit his tongue.

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of cigarettes. He took one out and lit it with a metal lighter. The way he carried himself made it obvious he was in charge.

“My name is Maximum, but you can call me Master now,” said Max as he ordered the men to stand down,” You two, go search the car and get him onto the truck.”

“Roger that Boss.”

“Oh, wait, put the hood on his face before you do, we don’t need Jeb killing him yet,” said Max as he stepped to the edge of the section of highway,” It’s a couple hours before he get back to base.”

“Wait! Where are you taking me?” said Killgore as one of the thugs disarmed him of his machete and pistol he had tucked into his underarm hoister.

“You’re property of the Black Bears now and you’ve been a bad boy Killgore. You’re gonna serve your time now, at the greatest Prison outside of Hell itself,” said Max as the men grabbed the hood out of the front of the truck,” Sing Sing.”

The hood went on and the long trip began.
 
[ROY] had grown bored ever since Max had ordered him and the prisoner into the back of the pick-up truck. The driver wasn’t too bad, Roy had asked him for if he had any smokes and he gave Roy half a pack. Roy sat quietly watching the scene change as they drove through Yonkers and towards the outpost in Tarrytown before Sing-Sing. Roy tried to start friendly conversation with the man because he knew that nobody would adapt easily where he was going.

“How are you hanging in there guy?” said Roy as he lit a cigarette.

“As well as can be,” said Killgore,” where are they taking us?”

“Sing-Sing. It’s a prison ran by the Black Bears. They run drugs, prostitution, and the slave trade out of a pre-war prison that survived war. About, thirty-years ago somebody snuck in and activated the robots that used to run the thing,” said Roy as he took a harsh drag.

“Prison, eh? “ said Killgore.

[KILLGORE] couldn’t see anything but he could hear the running engine and he could feel the wind on his neck. He could smell the faint smell of tobacco smoke.

“I guess if anybody deserves to go to Prison, it would probably be me.” Thought Killgore.

---
 
(Sorry for posting so late)

Andrew groaned as he lifted his head up,to his sides he saw concrete and in front of him he saw thick iron bars where outside he could hear other voices. He did a quick check of limbs and found he wasn't wearing his usual clothes or equipment instead he was wearing rags which would probably work better as sheets than clothing. "Well fuck me.." outside his cell an armed guard walked by "Not while on duty asshole"
 
Syphon awoke to the darkness. It wrenched of damp musk, but he thought he had "jet blindness" from his late night binge. Maybe he fell to a weird trip and wandered into the sewers? He remembered removing the dust from their kickers and combining them in a large pile, from where he snorted constantly, but it still stood a large pile. He decided in his clinic hideaway to swallow a large balloon. Syphon knew that the Bears were going to be pissed, after he butchered Jimmy, and they hung around the area close. Paranoid, he figured that they were going to retaliate and probably take his life, and fuck it, they weren't getting their bird back.

"Fuck, it busted and now I'm probably dying" Syphon chuckled as he stayed on his back, as he started feeling his body. His stomach didn't ache from some imminent overdose. Infact, his heart rate seemed pretty consistant for his treacherous lifestyle. After a few short lived moments of checking himself, he went to the floor, where he noticed the absense of all his equipment and a poor sense of balance.

Bootsteps echo on the otherside of the concrete wall. A small hatch, screeching its rusty founding, opens to a crawl.

"Welcome to the Hole... Your in Sing Sing motherfucker". Hatch slams.




"Wew.. Aint blind... Sweeeet.. Now I just got to pass this bundle" Syphon laughed hysterically.[/i]
 
[KILLGORE] sat quietly in the back of the truck as they waited in Tarrytown, a free outpost that did business with anyone with the caps or cash to handle their exports. They had the largest supply of post-war gasoline and oil on the east coast. Killgore had stopped through only a handful of times. It was a small place, a working gas station, a police station, and a few rebuilt stores that sold fresh food and salvaged supplies.

The place reeked of gasoline and you never got entirely used to the smell. Killgore could smell the gasoline and hear as it was pumped into the truck. He could only sit back and recollect on the path that had brought him hear. It was a long road to get from there to here. Killgore cracked his neck and felt a peculiar feeling rush over him.

“Everyone has to pay their dues at some point…I guess its about time,” said Killgore as the levity of the situation and the strange sense of a burden fell off his shoulders,” I guess you might have heard about me before? About the things I’ve done. Some call me a monster.”

[ROY]'s head was pounding harder than that pounding he gave that ghoul bitch back in Hell's kitchen and for some reason he had the sudden urge to itch his crotch. He had grown bored, with the guy who wouldn't stop talking.

"Guy, I don't give a fuck who you were, are, or will ever be," said Roy is the most offensive tone he could muster.

None of that even seemed to phase Killgore who began to babble incessantly like a drunk man or a man having a vivid psychedelic trip. He continued to think out loud and didn't seem to notice the disdain in his companion's voice.

"My name is..." Killgore thought for a moment, would he use his Surname? Or would he use his given name? "...My name is Thadeus."

"Well," said Roy trying to seem interested," Nice to meet you Thadeus. My name is-Like I gives a fuck!"

With the way the man seemed to banter on agresively Killgore couldn’t help but think of his younger brother for the first time in weeks. His little brother Benjamin was a great kid but he had a damn foul mouth. It was Killgore’s burden to bear that he would now spend the rest of his time…no..Killgore could not bare the guilt to even think about it. He started to tear up but coughed and wiped his face into the bag on his head.

[ROY] chuckled at the man now feeling slightly ashamed for the way he was treating the man. He might not have been what could be considered a kind, or nice person but inside somewhere hidden beneath the tough Ghoul exterior was a man who just wanted to be loved, and fucked by two hot nasty ghoul skanks. Oh, those dirty broads and the way they would-

Roy nearly coughed up a lounge with how hard he was laughing,” I ain’t no saint myself Thadeus.”

“No sir, I deserve to go where we’re headed," said Killgore who seemed like a man with a dark secret that ate at him from the inside out consuming any semblance of a normal life out here in the wastes," It’s about time I pay for my sins. Who am I to judge another? I’ve done things….to heinous to mention.”

[KILLGORE] continued to ramble on and could see it all happening in his head as he reminisced about his past.

In spite of everything, the time was approaching. The rest stop on the lonesome road of villainy and masochism and the memories of his misfortune resonated deep inside his soul. His poor brother Ben. He squeezed his fists and grinded his teeth in contempt.

“There is no rest for the wicked after all...to this day I will be haunted for the things I have done and the things I let happen."

"What the fuck man? Are you tripping on some good shit or what?" said Roy with a hint of jealousy in his voice.

"It all happened three years ago…" Killgore began.

[KILLGORE] and his younger brother Benjamin had taken a job for modest fortune from caravaners traveling through Old York to Philidelphia for 1,500 caps each way. Killgore had been doing this sort of work for a few years learning from his Father’s Family, the Killgore’s.

The Killgore’s were one of the largest independent caravan trading companies around and stationed out of Old Boston on contract with The Institute. The Company was run mostly buy Thadeus’s uncles Franklin, the man who fell victim to his vices but a good man nonetheless, and Samuel, the level headed and charismatic face of the company. Thadeus’ and Ben’s father, Thadeus Jr was involved in the company but focused on security operations. The Killgore’s were originally from back west from a place that was razed to the ground.

Regardless, Killgore and Ben were in high spirits about the job and knew that it was easy money.

They had just stopped at an intersection on the outskirts of the city. He had a talent of having a photographic memory, he could vividly recall the entire contents of a room he was passing through but in this case he remembered what he was wearing. Killgore stood there with his signature leather pants and boots. He wore a tan Vest and belt. He was carrying a small brown backpack with the essentials. He had bought himself a .45 Auto Sub-machine gun with one drum magazine and two regular magazines. His standard Machete strapped to his boot. He was clean cut with his short professional hair.

His brother was…dingier. Ben had brown steel-toe boots, blue patched jeans. A Black Bomber jacket with a white t-shirt underneath. Where Thadeus preferred conventional firearms, Ben had his eye on stuff that made a bigger hang. He had his 40mm Grenade launcher slung over his shoulder with a 6 shells stuffed into his own small brown backpack He had two smoke grenades clipped to his belt. His thick beard and baseball cap in tandem with his charm made him seem younger than he was considering he was Thadeus identical twin brother.

They looked identical but were far from it. Thadeus was introverted and had a moderate case of agoraphobia while Ben was outgoing and quick to make friends.

Ben took lead and went on ahead to scout on ahead while Thadeus stayed behind with the Caravan Boss, a young and lovely woman with curly blonde hair and a warm smile.

[ROY] smiled and nodded to the man, he knew he couldn’t see how fake he was being but he was relieved when the truck started up and the small convoy took off towards home. He had no reason to like this guy, he was annoying, wouldn't shut the fuck up, and this guy was brooding over something in the past.

"Whatever your problem is, you need to just get over it man." thought Roy as he started eyeing up the man's rucksack.

[KILLGORE] stopped for a second. He trembled and realized that he was talking to a complete stranger. There was no anxiety or anything. Probably a side effect of the Zing he had drunken earlier. As he recalled from the label one of the side affects was hyperactivity and hallucinations. He was never this talkative with anyone besides his brother Ben. It occurred to him that weather or not the man who shared the ride with him liked it or not, he was more of a friend to him than anybody he had ever known.

No sooner than he had paused to take a break, the memories sparking through his mind exploded into firing impulses and vivid hallucinations of the past. The visions seemed so real. He remembered it was the fact that he paid more attention to the boss’s smile amongst other qualities of her personality that they walked straight into a trap….

“Damn guy I don’t want to hear about your life story!”

“-Oh…I’m sorry,” said Killgore but he continued on with his long-winded memoir about the past.

[ROY] sighed as he felt the effects of the jet he had taken a few hours prior leaving his system. He felt drained and agitated as he sat there listening to the man under the hood ramble on and on about how he was “such a bad man” and “how he deserved everything that came to him”. Roy didn't buy that crap for a second, as he saw it," Life is what you make of it, if you keep worrying about the all the fucked up things then you wont be there to see the good ones and appreciate them."

He wanted the guy to shut up and stop giving him a headache but he made note that the guy was probably a lot stronger than him given his above average build. Roy leaned forward and found the guy’s bag. The guy was so caught up in his story that he didn’t hear Roy pull out the tin of Mentats and swallow the contents in two gulps.

Roy sat back and saw the prison on the horizon. It would only be ten minutes; ten awkward minutes while the man rambled on. Roy left him to his own devices though until it was too much to bare.

“Hey Mister, can you do me a favor?” said Roy as he covered his eyes with his hands.

“-Yeah? “ replied Killgore.

“Shut up and stay the hell away from me. I don't want anyone to do with you. You're more trouble than your worth. Anyway. we're here finally. I hope you’re ready for orientation.” Said Roy as the truck pulled into the prison gate.

“Orientation?” said Killgore,” Where are we?”

Roy laughed and hopped off the truck with his bag and the rucksack belonging to the other guy, he wouldn't be needing it where he was going and seeing as he was treated like royalty here, he could probably find some use for the junk.

"Two words of advice kid, stay alive." said Roy as he walked towards the red steel door labeled "Employees Only".

The guard pulled Killgore off the truck and lead him towards the gate. The guard grabbed Killgore’s neck and yanked him hard giving him a case of whiplash. He shrugged it off and decided to play nice. They kept walking a bit further. Killgore could tell he was not alone and in fact standing in a line. His handcuffs were chain linked to the man in front of him.

He could hear a lot of noise like a crowd of some sort and he could hear the rattling of chains. If he wasn’t mistaken he also could here the sound of a Protectron giving out commands.

“…Law abiding Prisoners have nothing to fear,” was one of the phrases he could make out through the heavy electronic voice and
“…Resistance is futile” almost sent shivers down his back.

“What kind of place is this?” whispered Killgore under his breath,” Where is this place?”

"Listen guy, be quiet while the warden scans you in." said a voice at least two men infront of him.

"The warden? Warden of what?"

He wouldn’t have to wait long to get his answer.

The guard shouted loud and proud, “Welcome to Sing-Sing the meanest damn prison in the whole territory! ”You're in my special little slice of hell now asshole! You’re ma’ bitch now!
 
“He that is taken and put into prison or chains is not conquered, though overcome; for he is still an enemy.” ~ Thomas Hobbes

[ROY] walked into the busy hallway and made an effort to nod and acknowledge everyone he went past. It was his way of saying,” I’m back now and if you need anything, come see me.” He walked through nasty dingy hallways, the walls were that nasty greenish blue colour. The floors were checkered black and white and the place looked disgusting, it was good to be home; well as good as it was going to be since he was no more a employee to the Bears than a slave. He heard whispers of how the half-dead man that they had brought back was going into immediate surgery with one of the Mr. Handy’s that the Bears had converted into a Mr. Orderly. Roy knew the patient wasn’t going to make it through any operation.

As soon as they even attempted to give him the necessary anesthesia, the poor fuck would kick the bucket for sure. Then again, the bears did have some technology they stole from the Institute, and if anyone could save his wretched life, it would be the Institute. They had made leaps and bounds beyond anything Roy could even think of. Their advances in biochemistry and cybernetics had led to rumors that, Well Roy laughed at the mere thought of it, that they had made a robot somewhere that looked and acted like a human.

Of course it was impossible for any such thing to occur. Roy bumped into some low-level grunt on his way through the twisted corridors. He found the quaint little door at the end of a long hallway with a handmade sign painted in white paint “The Pharmacy”.

He pushed the door open and threw his bags and rucksack onto the couch in the middle of the room. The room was small and furnished, with a dining table and two chairs on one side of the room, a standard twin size bed on the other side and a door leading to his lab on the opposite side. He went to his desk and pulled out some pre-war scrap metal and electronics and sat down. His main priority at this point before Max showed up and started barking his crap about how Roy had to make up on the time that he spent elsewhere was to try and fix his piece of junk Pip Boy. The darn thing had been busted ever since he got beat up by some asshole in power armor.

Here he was, minding his own business scavenging in the ruins of what used to be the subway and suddenly out of the blue he gets thrown against the wall and being accosted by some self righteous do-gooder. He had heard of the Brotherhood of Steel in his travels but never thought they would be in OId York of all places, especially considering the Institute had staked a claim to the territory long before them.

He began to take it apart and analyzed the broken components quickly. He could fix it but he was missing a key part, a small energy cell to power the device.

“Damn it!” shouted Roy as he slid everything off his desk in frustration,” How much longer am I going to be here?! Am I dead? Is this really hell? What the fuck!?”

Roy slumped over in his chair and put his head on the desk. He stood up and took off his belt with his pistol. Over half of his rounds on the belt were empty. He laid it on the desk and sat down. He leaned back and took a deep breath trying to calm himself down. He had to stop stressing out but between coming back to this shithole and that whinny prick in the back of the truck, his patience had grown thin. He sat there for a few minutes before opening the side drawer on his desk and pulled out a half empty box of 5.56mm ammunition.

He opened the box slowly, taking his sweet ole time and started to reload his belt taking careful measures, examining each round as he stored it away. A shadow came to the door and knocked before opening the door slowly. It was Max and he seemed happy for some odd reason. He hadn't had time to clean up yet and was still wearing the same clothes. Max was nursing a lit cigarette and standing with a certain strangeness in his stance. Well, not to odd, Roy put two-and-two together. He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. It didn't take a genius to realize that Max had plans for him to make up all the lost profit and revenue from when he had run off. Max was chipper as ever.

“Are you ready to get back to work Roy?” said Maximum.

Roy grabbed his belt and put it on. He had no choice. He was after all just another prisoner here albeit one with more luxuries, but a prisoner nevertheless.

“Sure thing Boss, let me grab my goggles and I'll get straight to it,” said Roy as he reached for goggles on a hook above his desk.

"Good boy Roy. Good boy," said Max as Roy walked past him straight into the lab.
 
“A prisoner of war is a man who tries to kill you and fails, and then asks you not to kill him.” ~Winston Churchill

[KILLGORE] had expected the “orientation” to be grueling, painful, and slightly horrifying but when he actually came through the orientation it was nothing more than a bath, some new clothes, and a fancy new necktie to go with his black and white suit. Sure the guards tried their best to fuck with Killgore but whatever was in that can of Zing that was screwing with him before had worn off and revealed the cold blooded classic Killgore. Nothing seemed to faze him.

He kept his head down but his eyes and ears open as he scuffled through the hallway while the guard behind him led him to a small room with a mirror-plate window. He sat down in the chair and began scanning the room.

He sat still for around 10 minutes before he began to grow impatient and tap his foot slowly like a war drum. Soon afterwards, a man with in a black pin-striped suit stepped in. Killgore eyed up the man, taking great care to examine him head to toe, deciding his threat level. The man’s hands were soft and clean, so he probably hadn't had to work a day in his life.

The man had medium length hair that was combed back with grease or something and he had a suave demeanor. His face looked like a dime a dozen but his eyes were…eerie. He smelled heavy of scotch and bourbon and had the stink of cigar smoke on his breath. Killgore thought about the glazed over look in the man's eyes and came to a conclusion, it was probably a result of jet-abuse. As soon as the man stepped into the brightly lit room, he put on his pair of black plastic sunglasses. Killgore accessed him as a low threat, he was most likely mid-level management at the Prison or something.

“Mr. Killgore, it’s such a pleasure to add you to our…collection,” said the man in the suit.

Killgore scoffed it off,” I’m glad one of us is happy to have me here.”

The man circled the table as he pulled out a cigarette from his pocket.

“Mr. Killgore, I regret to inform you but-“

-BAAMM!

The man slammed his fists against the table, gritted his teeth attempted to look dangerous.

“-You’re happiness is not my concern. Now sit like a good little boy.”

“What am I waiting for, sir? Orientation?” said Killgore.

“You’ll sit here and wait till the warden is ready to see you. You’re a prisoner here. You do what you’re told and things will go easy for you here.” Said the man.

“I understand…sir,” said Killgore as he played the helpless victim.

“It’s good that you understand your place here. It will make things…less painful and less stressful for you. Do what your told, and be a good boy,” said the man in the suit as he lit his cigarette,” oh, and a word of advice. Volunteer for everything here.”

The man slowly circled the room, filling it with the stink of cigarette smoke until the small room was hazy. Killgore could only imagine what the man meant by "volunteer", like he had a choice in the whole matter. Killgore stretched his feet out and attempted to make small talk.

“So, you know my name, but I don’t think you’ve told me your name.”

The man forced a smirk and obliged him.

“My name is not important, but you can call me Middle Man, everyone else does,” said the man,” I handle the sales of resources here.”

“Resources? As in?” asked Killgore hesitantly.

Middle man didn't have to say what he actually meant but Killgore could assume that this was more than just a prison. Drugs, slaves, and possibly more. The door buzzed open and a shadowy figure whispered to Middle Man.

“It seems that the warden is preoccupied at the moment. The specifics of your stay here will be discussed later. Right now, it’s time for you to go out and get some fresh air in the yard.”

“Oh joy,” said Killgore as he got up from his seat and followed the shadowy figure,” It’s play time and I bet all the other kids wanna’ beat up the new guy.”

---
[KILLGORE] made his way out the two green doors and outside into the yard. There were crowds of people of all types and walks of life. Killgore grit his teeth and walked towards some bleachers.

“Fuck!”
 
"Here ya go you piece of shit!", a heavy-sounding guard bellowed as he dumped Jonathan's (syphon) soup on the filthy floor. It'd been another twelve hour shift of complete darkness and the eluding sense of claustrphobia didn't help pass the time.

Usually, Syphon was a stubborn man who played the part of a man with an ego. Syphon would of gone without than put up with someone's attitude, but he was getting weak. He hadn't ate two days before the run in with Jimmy, and another one has near gone. Ontop of his hunger pains, he was beginning to grow frantic. His awaiting treasure was held up in an emtpy intestinal track, that needed to get pushed out or it was imminent of exploding. If 50grams of Jet was to become exposed to his intestines, one of the most sensitive organs dedicated to absorbtion, he knew it wasn't going to be a fun ride.

He crept off the stone cold bedding, and hobbled to the watery soup, and lapped the diluted nourishment like a broken kitten.

"Get me the fuck outta here God", Syphon mumbled as he held his stomach.
 
His headache subsided momentarily and his belly quieted. As soon as he turned to make his way back to his concrete cot, the hatch on his cell jiggled. Suddenly, light illuminated into his eight by eight cell and he squinted to shield his dilated eyes from the piercing light. Syphon was blinded for a few seconds, as he watched a blurry figure grab him by the back of the neck and led him to the hallway, on his knees.

"You ready to meet your new friends???"

"uh.. uh"

"Too fuckn' bad mister... Do you got a weapon?"

"Nah...", Syphon muttered as they got closer to a large iron gate.

"Take this... your gonna need it mate", a guard slipped a large nail shank into his lone breast pocket as he shoved Jonathan to the end of the hallway, ending at an iron gate and a brute of a guard. Syphon's captive guard grabbed and tugged on his collar, wrenching his disks in the process and laughing in eccentric chuckles.

The Gate Keeper, fitted in the advanced Riot gear of Combat armors lineage, smiled through his squeaky clean visor and spit tobacco at Syphon's feet as he approached.

"You remember Jimbo??" he croaked as he tilted his head. Syphon began to pitch words, when the Guard haymakered his belly and sent him to the floor. Syphon groaned as he wept for air.

"Gimme that!", the harsh Gate keeper yelled as he stood over Syphon, who nursed his stomach in agony at the thought of overdose, ripped the shank out of his pocket, pocket included.
He knelt down next to the terrified prisoner and whispered in his ear.

"I'll be coming for you.. Jimmy was my cousin, cocksucker!" He yelled as he drug Syphon by his hair and collar into the yard, where he booted him in his ass, falling face first into mud.

He laid there a while, surely feeling the devote effects of Jet. Completely broken. The mud was cold on his lips. He chanted scripture in his head, begging for praisal apon his soon aparture to the next reality. He spent his entire life dwelling in the trash, scouring through the dust, and traveling the sands. Nothing to show furth, as he spent his presumtuous-late moments rehashing the chaos, and ending in resentment towards everyone, everything. He swore the years of his suffering was some twisted joke, obvious torture for something he did in his previous life time.

"Aye man! Get the fuck up!" someone yelled beside him

"Wha?" Syphon turned, squinting and redfaced, "What the fuck do you want man? Can't you see I'm fuckin' dying here??"

The dark skinned man stood, arms crossed with a quizitive look on his face.

"I don't see blood cracker..."

Syphon laughed as he splashed his face into the mud in disagreement. The black skinned man knelt down beside the hapless Syphon, his nimble dreads swaying in motion, beads of steel bolts jiggled and bumped with metallic sound. He noticed the grungy white man, holding his abdomin with both hands.

"You got a illness.. a motha-fuckin' disease? defunct- organ or something?", he whispered in Syphon's ear in some glimmer of humanity.

Syphon shrugged, remaining silent.

"Look.. these slave-drivers don't give a fuck about you man.. Get up my brother", the man offered his hand in sympathy. Syphon grunted slightly as he got up, exhausted and weak, but not taking his hand.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Jules.. and you are?"

"Syphon" he nodded as he brushed himself off, though he remained largely dirty.

"Fuck kinda name is that for a white boy?" Jules chuckled, as Syphon didn't respond to stupid questions.

"I'm about to fuckin' die dude, you gonna help me or not?" Syphon said as blood rushed to his face, nearly about to weep. Jules could sense his tension, and went into urgency like his former profession of medicine-man demanded.

"c'mon.. go rest on them bleachers, I'ma find you somethin to eat.. You hungry? You look like shit bub" Jules took off into the crowd, with a stern walk. Syphon slowly hobbled to the stands, nursing his bruised ribs and trying to hold himself together from bugging out.
 
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