#wastewalking

[broodmotherdearest]

@wastewalking

Mother is aware of all things that happen along her borders. This is no exception.

The first thing that gets her attention are the footsteps. Seismic vibrations are what awoke her to begin with; even now, four years after McGrath, she’s still sensitive to them. Two groups of humans retreat and advance, respectively, across her flesh. One group is wearing raggedy shoes and boots of fur; the other is wearing boots of Brahmin leather, all with the same mass-printed soles. Soldiers. They’re heavy-- although not too heavy-- and pulled down by the weight of their gear.

That’s when the gunfire starts. Little staccato thumps, channeled through the shooters, down through their feet and into her skin. Even with so little information, Mother can make some educated guesses. The soldiers are firing carefully, in single shots and calculated bursts of fire. The other group is not so careful. Their shots are wild, unmeasured. None of them have automatic weapons.

She feels a glass shatter against her flesh, and then tastes her own milk upon her flesh. Cultists. Of course. She bristles at the thought of them-- meddlers, interlopers, who took what was a limited supply of something not meant for them. She’s not concerned about them; it’s the soldiers that worry her. Judging from the soles of their boots, they are not megacorp enforcers, and they are far too uniform to be Dead Hand. If there is another armed force operating on her border, she wants to evaluate it.

A tendril worms its way beneath the hard, packed earth. Tipped with claws of bone, it cuts through the dirt like an orkut in the water. It singles out one of the booted men, crouched on the periphery of his group. With the firefight making things hectic, Mother knows that he won’t notice the stirring beneath his feet. Until it’s too late.

When the time is right, Mother flexes her claws; they jut up from beneath the snow, closing over the man, a twisted cage that will support his journey to her. With that, she retracts, pulling the stranger down into her depths. Miles and miles of flesh, blood and gristle pass by him in an instant as she drags him-- willingly or not-- to her grand chamber. She wants to look at this trooper with her own eyes.

[ranger-a7-blog]

[wastewalking] X

Send ‘X’ to find my muse beaten, bloody, and left for dead.

He isn’t sure how much time had passed, but the ambush seemed to have worked. Ace himself isn’t sure if anyone else in the battalion had survived, but he himself is still conscious. For now, at least. The wounded warrior is fighting for every breath, his head still ringing from the bang of the grenade that had thrown him to the ground, unsure of just how many pieces of shrapnel had pierced him. His saving grace was the stimpak he had jabbed into chest just before passing out. It at the very least had kept him from dying. However, if anyone with less than savory intentions found him now, he’d wouldn’t be able to defend himself. Speaking of…He could make the figure of someone approaching in the distance, not too far now. He’d do his best to look around, but his bloody state made it difficult to move around at all. He was truly defenseless. Upon the stranger closing the distance, he’d fight through his labored breathing to address them.“Who…who are you?”

[17escapes-blog]

17escapes asked:

"That was a nasty scuffle..."

@wastewalking:

Roger offered a gruff hum in agreement, jabbing cautiously at the limp figure of the feral lying nearest to him with the barrel of his rifle. Getting swarmed was never ideal if one’s modus operandi was to pick off enemies from a distance- but it could have always turned out worse.

His fiery gaze, tempered to a dull modesty by the dark filter of his glasses, found its way to the peculiar stranger in a subtle sidelong glance. Covered head to toe in a patchwork assembly of Pre-War military gear, the man clearly valued his anonymity.. Though his voice carried a familiar gravely quality that gave Roger an idea as to why. He presently came to the conclusion that it was none of his business.

Turning to look casually over his shoulder, his low voice cut into the silence. “There’s an outpost up the next hill. I’m headed in that direction- I can take you there if you need assistance. They’ll help.”

          Behind a pair of dusty goggles, bloodshot eyes narrowed. A dull pain throbbed through Captain’s arm. His wrist had caught the jaws of a feral and he could already feel blood oozing through his cuff.

          “Hmm.” He wrapped his his fingers to the wound, more disappointed that the cuff of his jacket had been torn than his arm. “Couldn’t hurt. I need to do some trading anyway.” Although the wanderer couldn’t see it beneath the scarf Captain wore, he was smiling. “What about you, soldier? All in one piece?”