Wasteland PBeM From: driser@infogo.com (Darryl Riser) Date: Wed, 26 Jun 1996 00:00:00 +0000 The following is the first turn report for the Wasteland PBeM. If you'd like to join the game, get more info, make a comment or just keep up with the action, check out my homepage: http://www.infogo.com/~driser/ or send email to: driser@infogo.com The Wasteland is designed to be a cross between a freeflowing RPG and an interactive novel. All it takes to play is imagination and writing ability. There's no charge for playing and turns run once a week. Enjoy the story, Darryl ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- From the journal of James O'Neill: Bright. Bright light. Oh man, I wish I hadn't left the blinds open - goddamn' light! Wait a second, I must be on the floor - this ain't my bed. "Great. Just great," I barely manage to mumble. Forcing my eyes open, I see I must be outside. Strange. What the hell happened last night? And why is it so dang bright? And why can't I move? Unh! God I'm sore! I try to get my arms free so I can push myself up from my prone position in the dirt, and finally they come loose. Lotsa dirt stuck to them, though. Still struggling , I manage to free my legs also. Trying to wipe the dirt and rocks off, I realize that some of it won't come off. Hunh? It's not dried mud - it should brush right off. I take a closer look. Jeez, this can't be happening! There're *ROCKS* imbedded in my forearms! And my shins, too! A quick "what the fuck!?" escapes me. They're not coming loose, either, no matter how hard I try. At least they don't hurt. This has got to be some sort of a dream! Funny, though; it doesn't feel like one ... Great - so now I've got a 'skin' of rocks on my shins and forearms - what else is wrong? Lessee, I've got my shorts, Nikes, and my favorite Cruzan Rum T-shirt. So far, so good. My backpack is lying at my feet; well, that's something. I'm sore as hell, though. And half my face feels funny - kinda numb. Aha! More rockskin! Great. This is shaping up just peachy... So I guess whatever was touching the ground while I slept sorta merged with it. Makes about as much sense as being outside on the ground, I guess. Maybe I *am* dreaming; or maybe this is hell. I dunno. Still, I don't think it's a dream - I've already tried waking up, which has always worked before. But, I would think hell would be a much more 'active' place than wherever, or whatever, this is. Could this really be happening? Maybe it's a prank... I look around a bit. It's downright desolate here. Dull-brown rocky plains as far as the eye can see. Steel-gray sky. The hint of hills or moutains just over the horizon. No people or animals anywhere, or any signs of life, for that matter. Nothing but a solitary, beat-up-but-solid building. Looks kinda like Arizona, except for the color of the sky, but maybe it's just the weather... The building's only a little bit away, but I think I'll lie here for awhile and see if anyone or anything comes around. Plus, since I just woke up a few minutes ago, I'd better loosen up a bit, in case there's trouble. I gather my backpack, make sure everything's in it, and put it at my feet. Just sitting there watching the building, I stretch a bit. Hamstrings. Quads. Hips. Ankles. Waist. Shoulders. Arms. Wrists. Neck. Just like my teacher taught me. After a while, I'm not so stiff. Still sore, but loose. Good. Still no signs of life from the building or the surrounding plains. Guess I'll take a closer look. I walk over to the building and notice a sign over the door: Wasteland Cafe. That's odd. A cafe sitting in the middle of nowhere. Must be deserted. I try to look in the windows, but it's either too dark inside, or they're tinted. Welp, guess I just better go take a peek in the door. The handle turns easily, well-worn and solid, like the rest of the place. I open the door and step in, closing it behind me. Still can't see anything, but my eyes haven't adjusted from being out of the sun yet. Smells like old beer, smoke, and cloves. While I wait for my eyes to get used to the relative darkness, I step back and to the side of the door. After a few seconds, I can make out some seats, a bar, tables. And people. I wait for a few more seconds until my eyesight is completely back to normal while I case the joint. There're people, yes, but in all sorts of wierd clothes, from all sorts of different countries. And times? They're all sitting apart - no one's talking. Just sitting. Some are drinking. There's a bartender, too. He's polishing a glass and looking right at me, cigarette hanging from his mouth. No, make that right through me. There's something about the way he's staring. Like he was expecting me, but there's something else too... I look away and find a table in a corner, facing the entrance. I sit down and try to blend into the background of the place, all the while watching the others and trying to figure out just what the heck is going on here. ----- A shadow flows over the pages of the journal, and the young man glances up to find the bartender standing over him with a pair of bottles. Sliding the Guiness across the table, the stranger grins. "Welcome to the Wasteland," he says. "The first drink's on the house." "James O'Neill," the newcomer says, extending a hand, "My friends call me Rocky." "I can imagine," the bartender demurs, turning Rocky's hand to examine the rockskin lining his forearm. "Nick Adams. If I had any friends, I suppose they'd call me Nick. "I own this place." The vague wave could have taken in the cafe or the whole of the surrounding wasteland. Rocky has the impression Nick had a long history of avoiding specifics. Sipping the Guniness, he wonders how Nick had anticipated his order. "You have an eclectic clientele," he observes, with an equally vague gesture. "And yet you still manage to stand out," Nick grins. Rocky is about to comment when he notices his host has become distracted. "Two in one day," Nick murmurs, cradling the green bottle of Tsingtao in his slender, nervous fingers. The door opens slightly and a smallish person slips in, breathless. She pauses briefly, straining to see through the dim light of the cafe. Fine eyes a little too tired, face a little too anxious, clothes a little too shabby; in better times her standards might have been higher, but just now she can't afford much in the way of integrity. The two men who'd been closing in on her outside wouldn't stop to take moral inventory, anyway. Whether they were plainclothesmen taking exception to her recent career as a minor pickpocket -- or the most dangerous ghosts from her past finally catching up to her -- she'd feel more comfortable facing them in here, in a dark room with a wall at her back. Or maybe even a friend. She makes a quick survey of the room, dismayed to find the cafe so sparsely populated. Meeting a pair of interested eyes, she mumbles a quick prayer to any god that might be listening and heads in their direction. To be continued ... Up