A Little Job (Interactive)

If you look hard enough, you'll notice that some establishments (generally the seedier ones) maintain bulletin boards with requests on them. These range from normal jobs, such as hired muscle, delivering a message, finding someone, turning in a lost item, doing some research, etc, to worse things...

Out at the fringe of the city is an area where most of the poorer folk live. Without all the buildings to block the desert wind, this shantytown is plagued by hot wind and dust storms. It has a reputation as a place where people mind their own business.

In a certain establishment known only as "Bar," owned by a furtive looking man with a name that no one could ever remember, there was one such bulletin board, and it was moderately filled with requests.

Most were of the "Find my lost puppy" or "spy on my neighbors" variety, but one in particular seemed to stand out. It read as follows:

"There is a certain building I want explored. I happened across it when my associates and I were making our way through the wastes, when we found it. I believe there is something of value to myself in there, but I can't spare any manpower to explore it. It could possibly be very dangerous and you may encounter fatal radiation, however you will be rewarded handsomely. If interested, ask the bartender."

Isaac Bianchi

Like many of the wasteland mercs, Isaac always had to keeps his eyes open, and his ear to the ground. Whenever he entered a 'civilized place', he followed a simple list of things to do, find a safe place to crash, find out who the big people in the area were, and then, find some work.

Wasting no time, Isaac had a cheap room bored, the local figures in his head, and on his way to getting some hopefully easy work. Noticing the offer, he contemplated the work, and the risks that could come with it 'Lets see, possible radiation, good chances of raiders or crazy freaks, promise of a good reward but lack of mention to what it could be....Well, worse jobs I could do I guess, and it ain't finding a puppy, just hope I don't regret it in the end'

Heading into the bar, he kept his eyes open as he made his way over to the bartender, hands calm and low by the side, but ready to draw his knife if need be, after all, the way everything was, men would kill you if you just looked at them wrong, and he wasn't about to take that chance, not ever.

Asher Blackthorne

Clutching tightly around him a heavy dustcloak of Wastelander origin, patterned in the muted neutral colors that served as camouflage in the desert and plains, Asher trudged through the fringes of New Denver. Vicious wind, laden with dust and sand, whipped and knifed throughout the alleys and streets; those stupid enough to be caught out-of-doors without sufficient protection risked serious injury. Visibility was cut to almost nothing, even with his goggles over his eyes. Every so often, Asher encountered other living beings in the tempest, but they were vague shapes huddled in their protective gear, rushing past him without so much as a glance.

The storm took a turn for the worse. What little visibility there was before was cut down to almost none. Asher braced his feet against the gritty ground and held his flapping dustcloak around him. He stumbled over to the wall of the nearest building and clutched a metal support.

Gotta find a place out of the wind.

He felt his way along the wall until he felt the smooth brass ball of a doorknob beneath his gloved hand. Above the door was a sign labeled simply with a foaming beerstein, though it was hard enough to tell through the torrents of sand and grit. Asher wrenched the door open and slipped inside, almost slamming the door behind him in his haste.

He found himself in a dimly lit room, about half full. The light was supplied by various lamps burning some kind of pungent smelling organic fuel, and the tables and chairs were all cobbled together by roughly hewn pieces of wood, most not even matching. The tables were smooth and clean, however. The floor was lightly dusted with sawdust, sand, and grit, over the worn wooden floorboards. Various people populated the dive; some were legitimate drinkers, while others seemed to be families with children taking shelter during the storm. Most of them at least glanced at the door when Asher arrived, though none seemed to be interested in a man who was on the lower side of average in size. That suited Asher just fine.

He headed over to the bar and sat down on a stool, unfurled his headwrap and raised his goggles, and put his head down. The bartender didn't come over. He waited a few moments. Still no bartender. Prick.

Asher looked around for the errant bartender and found him conversing with a hardened-looking young man with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Curious, he caught the words "exploration," "transportation," "large reward," and "possibly dangerous," all of which piqued his interest. He effortlessly slid off of the stool, his boots connecting with the sawdust-strewn floorboards with a muffled whump, then casually strolled over to the pair before dropping onto a stool next to the man.

"So I heard something about a little job you need done. I just so happen to be in need of work." Asher keeps his voice low enough that only the bartender and the man can hear him.

The bartender drywashed his hands and fixed his beady eyes on the newcomer. "Yes, yes, the man who requested this job specifically asked for a small party, two at the least and three at the most. Here," the bartender slid the request form to Asher, who looked over it, who shrugged. "I'm still in."

The bartender eyed them both. "He also requested that you provide your own transportation."

Again, Asher shrugged. "As long as I'm getting paid for this. Speaking of which, how much exactly are we getting?"

The bartender considered this question and glanced around the room. "The man did not come in person. One of his 'subordinates' pinned the request by himself. He probably hit a few other bulletin boards as well as this one, but he seemed pretty wealthy, judging by his clothes. Hell, I'd do this myself if I could leave my bar in capable hands. Looked like a steal."

One final time. "I'm in." Asher shifted his gaze to the man next to him. "What about you?"

Isaac Bianchi

The details of the job were like he guessed, promise of a good reward, unknown but definitive threat level, and the need for it to be low key, which meant this could be more potentially dangerous, especially if the client decided to clean up any 'ties' later on down the road. As he listened, he spotted movement from the corner of his eye, noticing a young man, close to his own age if he had to take a guess.

Keeping his hand calm at the side, and close to the knife, he continued to listen, his body keeping prepared in case the newcomer suddenly decided to try something, that is, until he spoke of his intent to do the job as well. Looking over to the newcomer, he pondered the request, his hand rubbing his chin as he thought out the possible rewards and dangers.

Finally, he nodded, before calmly replying "Likewise....Name's Isaac, yours? “

Asher Blackthorne

Asher nods in return. "I'm Asher."

The bartender, who had shuffled off to serve another patron, returned presently. "Your employer's crony told me that he'll be at the southern guard outpost outside of the city tomorrow afternoon. He expects you to bring your own tools."

Asher nods once more, then gathers his dustcloak and slips off of the stool. Over his shoulder, he addresses Bianchi.

"If ya need a ride, meet me at the lot at the southern gate. I'm in spot 117." He pauses. "I'd buy some more ammo for that piece of yours, if I were you. It looks a bit archaic, but you'll probably need it when we get there. Let's hope you're a better shot than I am."

Asher pushed through the door into the baking afternoon heat. He peered down the street both ways before continuing, even though the shanty establishments had extended outwards from the old ruined buildings of pre-war Denver, choking the causeways enough that the government had to outlaw the use of most vehicles within city limits. The sky was entirely devoid of clouds after the huge sandstorm, but miniature dunes of grit and dust piled in the streets provided evidence.

Dustcloak loosely hanging off his shoulders, Asher unzipped his rocker coat and casually slipped his hands into his pants pockets as he walked. Unlike most people, he rather enjoyed the beating rays of the hot sun. He had been to some cold and desolate places on business, and there was something primordially beautiful about this system's resident star. That same heat rippled at the edge of his light of sight, causing the dirt-strewn causeways to shimmer like water.


Asher arrived at his destination, a bustling marketplace, an hour and a half later, gladly stepping into the shade of the awnings of the various peddlers' stands and wiping his sweaty brow. Approaching a cramped stall occupied solely by an elderly man, an ancient, battered refrigerator, and a rack of glasses, Asher reached into the sports bag on his back and dropped a pair of torn old serial mystery novels on the countertop.

"Will those do for a canteen refill and a glass?" He asked. The old fellow nodded slowly and extended a shaking hand for the canteen, which Asher unbuckled from his tool belt and handed over. The man added a little water, shook it up, then poured it in the sand to wash it out a little, then proceeded to fill the large canteen with a spigot jury-rigged onto the humming refrigerator. It stopped filling at one point, and he kicked it, giving it a start again.

"Damned old thing, the sand plays hell with appliances such as these. It's a good thing one of those Guild fellows is nearby, they'll fix most things in exchange for a few glasses of water. Wish everyone was that charitable..." The old man mutters.

In order to be polite, Asher decides to start a conversation. "How do you power that thing? Electricity is hard to come by this far out in the fringe, and it would cost too much to power that thing with gasoline. You got hamsters in wheels or somethin'?"

The old man chuckles. "Nah, nothin' like that. Friend of mine around here did a little experimenting with an old magazine scrap he bought in a bargain bin, turned out some of the pages were stuck together and they contained some pre-war instructions to build solar energy wells. Lord knows we get enough sun around here, might as well make it useful." He finishes with the canteen and reaches for a glass.

Surprised, Asher speaks again, "You're joking? With tech like that, he could make a killing. Or he could get himself killed by people out to steal his secrets."

The man laughs again. "Most people around here have them. They're not that pricy if you know what you're looking for, and we're all friends around here. Give each other discounts, ya know? Well, we construct 'em at night, when people aren't around to watch us do it. Then we just keep them relatively out of sight. It's not much of a problem, getting onto these roofs around here is pure hell, not worth the effort. I trust you won't tell 'em. You have the look of comfort about you, and you don't look like the type who would. Just in case, your glass is on the house."

He tosses one of the books back, Asher catches it deftly with his left hand. "Thanks, I'll keep my mouth shut, don't worry."

Asher finished off his cold water and strapped the now full canteen to his belt again. It was decidedly heavier, but it was balanced on the other side by other items of his trade.

He walked through the bustling marketplace, resting his hands on things he didn't want picked. Once or twice a few bullyboys eyed him up, but he casually knelt and slid his switchblade from his boot, deftly rolling it around his knuckles.

Finally, he shouldered his way past two burly door guards into a cramped shop cluttered with heavy canisters and barrels. The man behind the counter was a pudgy man with 3 chins and bloodshot eyes, and he nearly yelled at Ash as he walked in.

"Oh, it's you. Whatcha' got for me?" He grinned, expectantly.

Asher grinned boyishly and fished around in his pack again. He pulled out a large, double-bagged packet and dropped it on the counter. "Finest Cubans, rolled and everything. They smell like shit but they're supposed to be the real deal, even better than the shit they churned out before the goddamn war. Merry Christmas, Serge."

The shopkeeper, Sergio, practically tore the bags apart. A box of ostentatious looking cigars rested inside, labeled in Spanish. "Ah, ya shouldn't have! I get these for free, eh Ash?"

"Of course not you old coot, give me 3 cases of the 9mm and a few empty clips for a Mac 10. You can keep the change."

Sergio laughed uproariously. "Good to see you too. How's the girl?"

"What girl?" was the response.

"Get you one, it'll make those lonely nights out in the middle of shit-nowhere more interesting."

"Go smoke your goddamn cigars and give me that ammo, you crude old bastard."

Sergio vanished into a backroom, eliciting some sounds of creaking metal and the clatter of things being moved, finally returning with three olive drab metal cartons of ammunition, with "9x19mm" stenciled onto the side in yellow paint.

"How much is this? In units, I mean."

"You asked for three, I'll give you six. All ball point, full metal jacket. Those cigars were worth more than you thought. Now get out of my face and visit me next time you're in town, Ash-hole!"

"Your jokes are shitty as ever, Serge." They shook hands and Asher slipped out into the sunlight again, collecting his bearings before setting off towards his motel room, the ammo canisters clanking together.

Isaac Bianchi

Nodding at his new partner, Isaac watched as he went over, before heading towards the door himself, hand still near the knife as he thought out what he could possibly need before heading out. Gun was in decent shape, he could clean it up tonight before he went out to the job. Money department was a bit tight, so we wouldn’t be able to buy anything too supportive for the job.

‘Hmm…..Actually, if I remember correctly, dad mentioned Bruiser moved here a year or two back….Maybe I should drop in on the old man, might do him so good, hell, I don’t have much else I can do until then anyway’

It took a little while to find the old man, these days Bruiser kept under the radar, never know when a brother or uncle of some raider or crime figure decides to pop back up for a bit of revenge, especially when he hears the clear details about how you blew the poor bastard in half with a 12 gauge blast. Knocking on the rusty door, Isaac had to look up and a now much older looking, but still equally tall and built Bruiser.

Before he could blink, he was quickly pressed into a tight hug, and lifted clean off the ground, as the older man chuckled and said “Isaac you little fucking sprout, look at you, a god damn spitting image of your old man already!, where are my manners, get in here now!”

For Isaac, time flew by in the blink of an eye. Talk of old jobs, updates on how everyone was, advice passed on from the old generation to the new, if there was one thing Isaac was walking away with, was an earful of chatter, that was for sure.

“So…This new job you have going, what are the details exactly?”

“Not much so far, high radiation chance, dangerous on route and out, undetermined item of value for the client, and a promise of hansom reward”

“Sounds risky, you know your father would be nagging your ear off to not take it, it’s too fishy”

“I know, I know…but, frankly I’m not in the mood to join up with some asshole raider crew, so this job is the best bet…Besides, if it turns out a bad deal, I figure the hired help won’t be too bad, might be some easy kills…Hell, might make some pay off them if that happens, never know what you might find…Anyway, I got to get going Bruiser, gotta head out tomorrow, I’ll come back if the job turns out alright”

Rising from his seat, he leaned over to give the old man a hug, heading towards the door, only to hear his name called, a small pouch hitting him in the chest as he did. Catching the bag on the way down, he listened as Bruiser said “Extra ammo for you…And Isaac, be careful out there, you know I can’t go out with you now, but don’t make me bring your body back to your father, and make me tell him there was nothing else I couldn’t do, understand?

Smiling softly at the old man, he nodded and replied “…Thanks Bruiser, see you later”. Closing the door behind him, he worked his way back to where he was staying, heading to his room as he avoided any real contact with the people working there. Opening the small pouch, he smiled at the sight, .44 rounds that he could use for his rifle, god bless that Bruiser.

Slipping the new ammo into his pouch, he set himself up for the night, body laid out on his bed as he slowly closed his eyes, letting his body fall into a deep sleep as it waited for the day to come, whatever it may hold, god forbid.

Asher Blackthorne

Asher yawned and stretched, settling the beat-up old monkeywrench on the hood of his junker. He wiped the sweat from his shaved head with a grubby towel and then leaned back against the driver's side door. He was parked inside an old prewar parking garage; the sturdy concrete structure had managed to survive the bombing and had been quickly reacquired by various privateers, and then reassigned as a lucrative business. Cars didn't get much shelter these days, so it was preferable. Still, even the shady covered garages didn't do much for the dry heat of the desert.

The junker itself vaguely resembled a pre-war Chevrolet Corvette C4, albeit larger and more primal. It retained its coupe configuration and slick, aerodynamic chassis, except the whole thing was built about 1.5 times larger. It sat high off the ground on four fat offroad tires. The engine, an eight cylinder monster, slightly stuck out of the hood. The rest of the car was sheathed in heavy armored siding. The modified trunk stuck out further than normal in order to accommodate the back seat and the extra storage space that was a vital component to Asher's livelihood. The entire ensemble was a deep blue stained with dirt and mud. Despite the chipped and weathered paint and the banged up condition of a lot of the parts, the car was obviously well taken care of.

Just changed the goddamn windshield, too. Man, it was hell driving through the fucking prairie with no goddamn windshield.

Break over, he meandered over to the trunk and popped it, organizing the location of the various crates and toolboxes that lined the inside compartment, then belted them in with a series of recycled seat belts that he had attached to various hard-points. Satisfied, he slammed the trunk and leaned through the open, windowless driver driver-side door, felt around blindly for a few minutes, then detached a mid-weight metal object from the interior with a click. Drawing his arm back, he checked the load and heft of the Ingram MAC-10 machine pistol, aiming down the sights a few times, and then slinging it over his right shoulder. He also grabbed a few freshly loaded magazines and slipped them into his tool belt, then checked the rest of his armaments.

Now all I gotta do is wait for that Bianchi guy. He'd better show up soon, or I'll leave his ass behind."

Asher slowly got up and walked over to the guardrail of the garage and stuck his head out, squinting and shading his eyes with his hand as he attempted to judge the time based on the sun's position.

Mid-morning, or somewhere close. Where is he?"

Isaac Bianchi

Sunlight slowly poured through the cracks of his window, stirring Isaac to wake up, and with that, the realization of his new job. Unlike back home, he had to rely on other things to wake him up, a big difference from living in a compound of friendly mercs working for the family. Changing out of his night clothing, Isaac quickly gathered up his gear, as he checked and loaded up his rifle, his mind working out what was ahead.

Heading out, he avoided the various distractions that were along the way, shoe shines, hookers, salesmen, the various people that wandered the street, offering some petty service just so they could survive a bit better than they were. He felt almost sorry for them, no real escape from their problems, and no matter how hard they worked, struggled, they were always stuck in their situation, it was sad really.

But now wasn’t the time to worry about the struggles of the world and the people in it, he had a job to do, and he had to get paid. Taking a few shortcuts, he quickly made his way over to where his partner said he would meet him; hopefully he wasn’t one of those cocky and greedy assholes who bailed early to get the pay all for himself.

Thankfully he wasn’t one of those, and a MAC-10 user too, huh; guess he was full of surprises. Waving as his partner, he looked over the car, nodding in approval, as he said “Sorry for the wait, lots of little distractions along the way…Nice ride, you put this together yourself?” Tossing his bag into the backseat, he unslung his rifle and continued “Anyway, I’m good to go whenever you are, know how far away the location is?”