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WHO: Drifter | Various
WHAT: Monthly Post
WHERE: Around Dualis and in the Swamp, More might be added
WHEN: January
WARNINGS: Probably violence and some food issues.

A.) IT'S NOT BRAIN SURGERY
CLOSED TO LORNA
DATED TO AFTER THIS

He's not happy to have learned what's in his head, and honestly? It's worth the risk. What if it kills him? He's got too many damn things in his head already. Does he want that big AI having access to any of 'em? Nah.

He's compared the Head to Rasputin before. Now, he puts a lotta stock into the endgoals of the warmind; more stock than he'd put into any real person. The thing wants to fight the darkness, and hell, it doesn't wanna get used by the Vanguard! Who wouldn't agree with that? And it reaches far and wide in its conflict, stretching its sattellite tipped fingers to the edges of their home system.

But the Warmind? When it decided to copy people, it was volunteers. People who donated their memories and way of thinking to create immortal warriors of a kind. Even there it one-upped the Head; when it saw it was losing the war, it let 'em all go to go do their own thing. Some of those 'exo's it made, robot copies? Became the greatest badasses that third rock from Sol had to offer.

But even then, catch Rasputin in a mood? Bust in on him where you're not wanted? And there's hell to pay. The Warmind stuffed some damn fool Iron Lords full of nanotech when they decided to breach one of his facilities and take weapons without asking. Personally, if you ask Drifter? Don't be a damn punk and think you're slick enough to fight a centuries old AI with a fist and an ax. Didn't work out too well for those Iron Lords.

Drifter doesn't much want to turn out like those poor fellas. Even if none of the voices in his head come along for the ride, even if his ghost refuses to get attached to some smartass just because it looks like him, he doesn't like the idea of his thoughts and memories just spilling out to where it doesn't belong. The moments he held little Yu through her dying breaths are just as much his as knowing how to access paralell universes. He doesn't want the Head to have either. He doesn't want the Head to puppet him to use that for himself.

So? How about a trial run he thinks. Rip that thing out, see if he comes back. Tell that pretty little thing with the shaved head if he makes it. See if she's willing to risk standing up to the pressure. Let his ghost scan some brains. That's the plan and it sounds good to him. Now to wait for his surgeon. On a rooftop. Best place to get a voluntary head injury.

B.) SWAMP MONSTER HUNTING
OTA
DATED EARLY IN THE MONTH

He'd heard about the swamp, but hadn't got to investigate much. Time for that to change. Out there were definitely parts he needed for additions to his weapons, and he was ready to go exploring and/or hunting.

He's back in his armor, big furry shoulder pads, leather(ish) chaps, thick belt with his hand cannon tucked into it and all. Somewhere between space traveller stereotype and old lone traveling warrior. Drifter's pretty good at wearing his business right upfront. He doesn't lie about what he is.

Can't be blamed for what people get themselves into.

Unfortunately, at the moment, getting themselves into something means they're gonna be marsh treading. And he needs the fangs off a man-eating swamp seal. Honestly, better than the alternatives. It could be gators. Could be boring, too, which is even worse. He's out in the swamp with a rented boat (that clerk, by the way, seemed keen on asking for insurance because he seemed to be pretty sure it wouldn't be coming back). There's some squishy ground to walk on, though, and he's abandoned the craft for the moment to travel that.

C.) SWEEP YOU OFF YOUR FEET
CLOSED TO NICK
DATED TO EARLY IN THE MONTH

He's been prepping and making weapons for the Heart for a couple of months now. And, to be honest, it isn't fair to the lady that's been kindly enough to introduce him to them that his focus has been mostly on them.

He shows up late at the bar, just when Nick's about to get off work, and slams his hands on the bar. This time wearing his Western fusion shtick, at least, not looking like a ratty space mechanic freak as he knows he damn well can.

"Come on, Darlin'. I wanna show you somethin'. No time like the present." And maybe he can tell her about the damn fool, if successful, thing that he did for himself.

D.) SO I HEARD THERE WAS A MAN WITH A FORGE
CLOSED TO SEIFER
DATED TO JUST AFTER NAPS

Drifter can generate his own heat and some minor transmatting. Honestly? Makes it a little easier to be a wanderer with his work. But generating ones own heat is exhausting. Work work work, all the time. It's drawining, and he has to wait a good ten, twenty minuted between big surges. He's about sick of that.

But, apparently, there's some fella with an actual forge out there. And Drifter? Needs a piece of that sweet action, thanks. He follows word of mouth in his own particular way (some shady deals, some strong-arming, some fair trades of 'useful' goods) until he finds the man and his forge.

He makes a pretty blatant show of not sneaking in. He just wants to be friends here, right? They got a lot they could do for one another. Who is ol' Drifter to pass up some alliances with potentially talented people. It could work out just fine for the both of 'em.

Trust.

But, he's gotta admit, this is a tad more mannequins than he's used to. Hell, last time he saw mannequins standing around in a deteriorating setting? They were target practice for Fallen. Spoilers: It didn't help 'em. He gets to the front door of the 'recycling center' and knocks... and thinks he hears a dog? Damn, now he doesn't even know if it's someone's pet or an actual person.

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"I tell you what, brother. You help me get one of his teeth without me havin' to damage him elsewise? Then sure. We won't kill the man-eating swamp seal. But trust me, I don't know if you heard about the dark spooky secret" he makes waggly fingers "you might wanna be ready to defend yourself if you gotta. Even across the cute stuff."

Because he doesn't trust the Head not to pull something real low like that. It's not fair to these soft hearted types. They'll get torn apart.

Now, Drifter isn't a big fan of give and give and give. He is, however, not a huge fan of the survival of the fittest extremes his old brothers used to taught as gospel truth. He wouldn't want this guy to go down. Seems like a good fella that doesn't need the drama.

"Yeah, I, uh... I heard. The basic gist anyway," he says, practically sighing the words out. Not that he had a great impression of Dualis when he first woke up here, but... well, he could have done without Inland Empire being right about the super sexy twist this time around. Like, he could have really done without it. The paranoia is eating away at him and his volition like nothing else. The fact that he's here in the marsh right now just goes to show how desperate he is for something akin to stability and friendship.

That, and running around in the reeds tugs at the fond memory of a previous, less terrifying cryptid hunt. Of course he was going to say yes.

"Look, don't worry. Push comes to shove, I can pull the trigger just fine." There's a meaningful pause there. "I just prefer running through the other options first. Use the ol' law-jaw and try and talk things out, maybe." Which might not work on a man-eating swamp seal, sure, but never say never, right? He gestures over to where Drifter's hand cannon sits. "Plus, I was kinda hoping that thing had a... sorta sci-fi stun option, y'know? Bzzt."

Edited 2020-01-14 02:23 (UTC)

"Well, just remember, if they don't get what they want? You might have to shoot somethin' that looks like a kid. Now, I'd much prefer they make 'em all think like people, but you know, if push comes to shove? You shouldn't let that thing win."

Even if that means a very uncomfortable swarm. Either learn to run real well? Or fire a gun at something you don't want to.

"I get this tooth, though, I can start riggin' something together that can actually take down one of the big bots."

But then he laughs, that gravelly raw sound. "Who knows! Maybe it won't be a maneater no more without it."

Drifter looks up at a higher branch. Then back at Harry. "Do me a favor, brother? Let's just keep this next thing between us." And then he jumps up to a higher branch, a quick float, far too high for a normal human to get to. From up here? He can see further out in the swamp.

To his absolute shame Harry can't help but think of Cunoesse, then. He remembers the ten year old's manic expression as she stood up on the fence, arms spread, demanding he shoot her. A demand that came after he tried silencing her relentless abuse by pointing Kim's gun at her.

The image of Kortenaer's surprised, furious expression as the bullet tore through his cheek crossfades into his mind, too. He could kill one, but not the other. But Kortenaer's killing came as a last ditch effort to limit a death toll. Harry's stupid gesture towards Cunoesse, on the other hand, was born of nothing but fear and a failed bid to establish authority to someone who refused to recognise it.

Beneath it all, Harry knows he's a killer (and about as low as they come, really) but in the scenario Drifter's painting? Shit. The face of your enemy does matter - at least to Harry. He can only respond with silence.

And he remains silent, up until it's impossible not to: Drifter's ridiculous vertical leap.

"That's—"

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT — Physically impossible.

INLAND EMPIRE — Magic.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Devastatingly cool.

"—Phk...ool."

Nailed it.

His jaw works for a long moment, before he settles on a broad, lopsided grin. "You gonna be okay getting down from there or is this a kitty in a tree situation?"

Drifter laughs like he just made a pretty damn good joke. About as jolly with it as this scoundrel can possibly muster up. "We'll see! Pretty sure I won't break nothin' if I fall out, anyhow." Or at least he won't break anything that would stay broken.

Then like a grody Peter Pan atop the mast of Hook's ship, he shields his eyes and looks over the swamp. God, he wishes his vision was better. Sure, Ghost! Bring him back to life with a nice fit body, but, you know, leave the scars and the bum eyes.

"I see a few things. Could just be gators, though."

He hops over to the next tree, another waft. The air under him distorts a little as he moves, some unseen force holding him up for the quick movement. "Alright, head to your left. Have your gun out. Even if it's nothin' maneatin', best be cautious."

Laughter shouldn't elicit an unpleasant, sinking feeling, right? It's odd, but then again the last time someone reacted like that to one of Harry's dumb lines, it was as some sort of grand, confusing power move.

He watches, still not quite processing what he's seeing as Drifter shifts to the next tree.

RHETORIC — As Drifter drifts.

His mouth snaps open as the impulse to parrot a related pun explodes into his head, but Drifter beats him to the punch with an instruction. A rather sobering one at that. Harry seems to immediately enact it, armoured palm suddenly flush against the oversized pepperbox pistol holstered beneath his cloak. His trajectory changes, too. That slower prowl starts veering left, and he bobs his head up at Drifter like a good boy. Only...

HALF LIGHT [Challenging: Failure] — Ναι αδελφέ. Είμαστε δόλωμα.

Something about this image is wrong. Harry can feel his heart beat thrumming a sudden panicked, staccato rhythm as adrenaline floods in. He's down here. Drifter's up there.

"Wait! Hold on," Harry hisses - a scandalized stage whisper rather than something truly quiet. "Am I bait?"

"Everybody's bait at some point! But to be honest I hadn't considered it until you said so. Wasn't thinkin' about gettin' out of the boat until I figured, eh, you wouldn't make too much trouble over the fact a man's got a few more vertical priveliges, right? An' we needed to scout ahead.

"But, if you're obligin' and think I might be more badass than anything that comes out after ya? I won't just throw an ally away."

And so far, Harry seems like a good ally to have.

"Son of a bitch..." Harry was going for a wave of masculine dismissal there, but it comes out suspiciously close to a whine.

AUTHORITY — He's not even denying it. He's got ZERO respect for you.

SUGGESTION — And having a toddler tantrum over some perceived slight is only going to push it into the minuses, buddy. We'll save the emotional aggression for later. Put it in the back pocket.

And so he does, with one last disparaging glance skywards. The soft squelch and cracks of boots on reeds fills the air instead, and Harry continues forth, hoping a display of trust makes him somewhat worth keeping around. Everybody likes a brave, unquestioning idiot on their side, right? Drifter can't be bullshitting all of that... vague, over-the-top affinity, surely?

His face is stuck in a rictus grimace as the reeds thin and he finds himself having to wade towards the next rise of land. His ears are absolutely straining for sound, be it Drifter's voice or an unexpected shift in the water.

He'd fucking kill for some speed right about now.

"Hey, I won't let you die!" Drifter assures him, though it might be all that assuring, considering. But he still looks a little amused (how can he not) as the boat moves forward through the dank, dark trees.

Drifter pulls off another quick float to the next tree, though his attempt to land fails and the branch breaks, falling into the water. He caught enough of a landing, though, that he can snag air again and make it somewhere sturdier.

There's something in the water, scaly, but slithers up and down like it has humps. Like a scaled dolphin that's just too long, fin along the flat of it rather than the long of it. It's lost in murky water, head never visible.

From where he is, Drifter can see a dark spot under the boat but it doesn't linger, luckily. It moves on. Seems pretty wary. There are fish going the same direction. Towards the big guy? Then the lot of 'em might be running from something.

Ignoring the waterfall of sweat slicked down his back, Harry's maintaining something in the general range of cool and composed. His eyes flick to the snap of the branch on cue, but seeing Drifter's nonchalance, he seems to relax a little in turn, tension dissipating somewhat. Another step causes a wash of frigidly cold water to seep over the top of his boots, reaching up to his thighs. It's enough to still him for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. It's—

—Oh god, what the hell was that?

HALF LIGHT [Heroic: Failure] — Θα πεθάνεις αν δεν φτάσεις στο πλοίο.

Something just slid against his leg, pressing up to the back of his knee. Something with weight.

HALF LIGHT — Run.

Fuck coolness, fuck composure, fuck trying to move through the water at a glide. Splish-splash he's hauling his ass back into the boat. If he lets out a low whimper as he grips the side to throw himself up and over, SO BE IT.

Nobody can ever accuse Harry there of not moving fast. He looks off into the swamp and sees, exactly, what that creepiness was running from.

"Oh what the hell is that."

He dives off the tree and lands with a splash by the boat, pulling his pistol from his belt and aiming it. And through the trees comes one of the most idiotic cryptids he sure as hell ever ran into. And he's met Cabal. Ever seen a Cabal's mouth? Especially when they're eating? Yeah, you gotta make effort to be stranger than that.

What makes it's appearance, crashing through trees? A little larger than a car-humping elephant seal?

A big ol' bunyip.

"Welp, you still wanna play nice with this big boy?"

Harry has barely had time to scrabble up onto his feet again when he hears Drifter splash into the water beside him. One hand has affixed itself to the side of the boat, and he crouches there, dripping and confused as he follows the line of Drifter's pistol.

For a guy with so much red baked into his features, Harry's face goes awfully pale.

His second cryptid. Not as tall as the phasmid, no, but where the phasmid's limbs were thin, unfolding towards him like a paper crane, this guy's are bulbous, propelling it their way like it really is a beefy, angry man-eater. His right hand finds his pistol again, and he unholsters it this time, elbow locking in place.

...He's about to shoot a cryptid, isn't he?

INLAND EMPIRE — Wait! At least try reasoning with him, first!

His mouth opens, but all that comes out is a wavering, "AHHHH!" As far as screams go, it's pretty layered - one part fear, sure, but with levels of please stay away, I don't want to hurt you and oh no, I'm a hypocrite and I'm rather angry about that threaded in along side it. It also has the effect of an exhale. His arm is steadier than it has any right to be, therefore, and so he pulls the trigger like he actually means to stop the beast.

In some alternate universe, the RCM provides guns with enough power to punch through blubber and hit sinew and bone. In this one, Harry gets to watch his bullet disappear into a wall of flesh like he dropped a coin in wet cement.

"Watch it, brother! Aim for somethin' that looks like it got a lotta nerves to it."

Drifter abandons his usual cowardly persona to launch himself at the thing. Stealth be damned, it's here, and he wants that tooth. And he uses his arm to keep the monster from clamping down immediately.

His armor is good. It's only so good. The animal's teeth pierce right through, and the old immortal hollers and squirms to pry its mouth open, hanging on like he's wrangling a bronco right through the pain.

"Oh you little piece of lard filled swamp trash I'M GONNA GET THAT TOOTH!"

Even if he has to do it with it stuck in his armor.

"HOW?"

He doesn't mean to yell it, but it's like the previous scream snapped whatever knob controls his volume, and now he's stuck like that. And it's a good question as far as he's concerned. The only clever bunch of nerves he can think to hit is an eye, and said creature's eye looks about the size of a centim coin.

It's a coin-operated mechanical bull, and it's bucking and it has Drifter's arm like it's intending on ripping the damn thing off.

Harry is absolutely panicking. He's a reasonably good shot — he hit both the cargo belt holding up Lely's bloated corpse, and later, his brother's cheek — but he's not won't-accidentally-brain-Drifter-if-he-swings-in-front-of-the-barrel good.

In the end, he settles for the nearest leg. The hand-canon jerks back in his hand, pain shooting up his damaged trapezius as the bullet... lands kinda-somewhat-near its target.

It's more its shoulder.

Or... well, its neck, if you're being pedantic.

Which, frankly, is way closer to Drifter than he's comfortable with, but at least that'll smart a little, right? It better smart, anyway, because he's down to his last bullet now, and unless Drifter can somehow pull off some real heroics from halfway inside a mouth?

Yeah, this is fucked. They're fucked.

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