The horde was coming again.

The remnants of the original detachment huddled in the meager defenses of the ranch buildings.  The place had been built to hold out against restless natives.  But not this restless.  And not this many.  They been chased all the way from the damned, black ruin.  Harassed and attacked across the wastes.

How had the Anouk’s disabled the comms?  Cut off.

Took refuge in the abandoned buildings of old Rourke ranch.  A place to defend.  A place to make a stand, the lieutenant had said.  A last stand, maybe.  But they had driven off the first assault.  A bloody, desperate carnage.  How could those damn aliens keep coming after being hit?  Bullets just bounced off the armor of those lizard-things they ride.  Thank God for the sykers and the Cy-SOGs.

Still lost too many…  Too many…  But the anouks had lost more and pulled away.  The beleaguered defenders had hoped it was for good.  But they knew it was a lie.  The natives were riled and angry.  It was no surprise when they heard the war cries of the native warriors and the shrieking roars of the chanouk lizards.  The raging cacophony was carried to the tired, hopeless defenders on the ceaseless winds of the alien world.

The defenders checked their mags.  Again.  Not enough.  They’d fight anyway.  Maybe they could do it…  Maybe…

One corner of the ranch wall disappeared in a violent explosion, scattering troopers and chunks of concrete around the yard.  Some of the sykers screamed and grabbed their bald heads in horror and pain…

They were coming.  It was coming.

Welcome to Banshee!

Or, for Dean, welcome back!

Dream logic is at play here.  Other than Dean, the rest of you were never here.  But somehow, you are and it makes sense.  Of course you were.  Kelly had always been a Colonial Ranger.  Fletcher's always been a CSA technical specialist, volunteered to join the Exfor for the greatest adventure.  Harry's always been a cyborg soldier sent to bolster the UN Forces.  Dean has always had this strange black tannis-stone medallion found in the dark, shadowy ruins of an ancient alien city...

Using Quick Encounter Rules.  All rolls are at -4 to represent the desperate situation.  Choose your skill, make your roll, write your post befitting the results.  Success is a level of Fatigue.  A Raise is unscathed.  Failure is a Wound.  Critical Failure is d4 Wounds.

The world quickly started to turn upside down with that breach in the wall.  Anouk riders on a the huge lizard-like chanouks rampaged into the breach.  One of the beasts reared and laid into an infantryman with huge scything claws, tearing through the armored battlesuit like a candy wrapper.  The rider cocked a tannis-tipped spear and threw the primitive weapon at another trooper.  The stone-tip seemed to glow or hum or both...  It had no right to tear through modern, hi-tech polymer armor.

But it did.

The spear punched through the grunt and pinned him to a concrete wall...

More were coming, screaming out of the hazy dusklight...

Still your go!  Just trying to inspire!

The radios had been down ever since they had engaged in a strategic repositioning from the old anouk ruin.  He'd heard plenty of the others blaming it on the "grapes", but Fletcher knew damn well how good, or bad, the atmosphere on Banshee could be when it came to boosting or playing havoc with radio waves.

Of course that hadn't mattered as much since the field pack comm had gotten holed clean from one side to the other.  Fletcher had been working on getting it up and running ever since they got to the ranch.  He'd managed to pull the bits that composed the inertial GPS out, and rig them to run independent of the rest, but that still left making it work with the handheld communicator that was usually only good for a mile or two at best.

When the BOOM! of the wall caving in had reverberated through ought the ramshackle compound, Fletcher knew he was out of time to do things properly.  He grabbed the big battery from the field unit along with the rest of his stuff and sprinted out the backdoor.

There was an old windpump back there that looked like it belonged somewhere in Kansas instead of a homestead on some alien rock, but it was big, it was metal, and it was located with a few buildings between it and the hole in the wall.  All of those seemed like good things to a desperate man like Fletcher.

Sliding to a stop he began stripping lengths of wire and winding it around the metal of the derrick shaped base.  He quickly wired those into the antenna on the handheld unit and held down the talk button.

"All stations, All stations!  This is Whisky, Alpha, Foxtrot four.  Does anybody read me?  Radio Check, Over!"

Fletcher waited a few moments.  Somewhere there was a very human scream as a man died but most of him ignored it at the moment.

"All stations, All stations!  This is Whisky!  Alpha!  Foxtrot!  Four!  Radio Check!  Over!"  He hollered.


With no reply Fletcher grabbed the big battery and began wiring it in to try and give the unit more juice to send up the improvised antenna.


Fletcher rolled 1,3 using 1d8,1d6, rerolling max with rolls of 1,3.  Know: Engineering, Wild

I forgot to add in the negatives, but that's still a Fail!

Harry scowled. This day was just getting worse and worse. He could shoot the thing, but artillery hadn't done jack to them so far. The best chance the others had was if they got a little breathing room.

What the hell. It wasn't like they could kill him a second time. He pumped some Spook Juice on to the blade of his chainsaw-arm, revved it, and sparked it. Flame on, he hustled over to the trooper who'd just been impaled and tore the tannis-spear out of the wall. Internally, he winced as the dead trooper flopped down, but he kept the wince off his face. Instead, he put on the most fearsome grimace he could muster.

Then he charged, screaming his fool head off, at the chanouks and riders, waving his flaming arm and the bloody spear, daring them to come after him. A great big screaming, flaming, bloody distraction in a can, charging out of Hell's Heart at the natives.

((OOC: Going to try an Intimidation check, since I assume I still get the "I'm a scary cyborg" bonus in the dream to cancel out the -4 penalty.

23:49, Today: Rusty Harry rolled 1,3 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 1,3.  Intimidation.

Fucking really, Dice Roller? No, screw that, I'll toss a chip at it.

23:50, Today: Rusty Harry rolled 1,4 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 1,4.  white chip.

Better.))

Ranger MacLeod checked her shotgun.  Empty.  Her web gear likewise empty.  Useless.  She dropped it there with a dead metallic thud, it was dead weight.  But she'd been lucky, the shotgun seemed to actually hurt those things.  A little.  Sometimes.

Before they'd gone Over There, there'd been a lot of ballyhoo and mockery of sending a CQB specialist into "Outer Space".  Now the Ranger wondered what those in charge had known that they hadn't told everyone else.

Her sidearm was long gone, she'd picked up some submachinegun three passageways ago.  It was on its last, mostly full, magazine, but that was only good for a burst or two.

The Ranger struggled for something to say, an order to bark, an inspirational saying, and she found nothing.  That's when the cyborg unit activated and went nuts.  It was here.  Crossing herself, the Ranger activated her laser cutter and flung herself not quite into the fray, rather staying in the cybernetic unit's six and opportunistically cutting down any target that attempted to get past its weapon systems or swarm the unit.

She was not nearly as impressive looking or as loud, but it was classic military tactics in small scale.  Infantry supports tanks in urban combat.  She was the infantry, the cyborg was the tank, and the urban was a colony in space.  It all made perfect sense.

Forgot. thanks Harry lol
11:41, Today: Kelly MacLeod rolled -1,6 using d10-4,d6-4, rerolling max with rolls of 3,(6+4)10.  Forgotten Fighting Roll.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:41, Mon 15 Feb 2021.

The rifle banged against his back as he ran.  His shoulder hurt something fierce, his opposite hand clamped over the wound as his legs pumped.  He'd been far the safety of his own lines, his unit scouting out the enemy.  Things had gone horribly wrong.  Radios were out and he'd been ordered to report back, to warn their main forces.  Dean had tried to make it back first...he had failed apparently.

Jumping over the sandbags and into the rough cover it provided, he looked around furiously to see who was where.  Scrambling over to a dead soldier, he quickly stripped the body of magazines for his rifle; he'd run out hours ago.  Some might view it as cold, heartless.  But this was FarAway.  Here, it wasn't cold or harsh.  It was just another day in hell.

Reloading, he threw himself back to the barricade.  Ignoring the pain, he shouldered the weapon and drew a bead on first target he spotted.  Back to work...




OOC:

21:30, Today: Dean Mitchel rolled -2,-3 using 1d8-4,1d6-4, rerolling max ((2,1)).

Well...that hurt.

The charge of the massive cyborg blunts the charge of the anouks through the breach.  The native warriors backpedal away for a moment. Save for the chanouk and its rider.  The chanouk rears and hisses, but the rider kept it steady.  Rider and beast, at least equal in size to the war machine, opted to pick on someone their own size.  Inspired, the rest of the warriors began to circle back in...

SSSSZZZZRRRRAP

The laser cutter tore through the first anouk with a terrible ease, leaving the warrior to fall into pieces as the Ranger moved on through.  More would meet similar terrible fates under the cruel effectiveness of the land clearing tool.  The Ranger and the cyborg were holding the line, giving the rest of the force a chance to pull back together...

Troopers began to step up, ducking into what cover was available or just standing tall in the open.  It didn't seem to matter anymore.  A thunderous chatter of unified fire began to ripple into the ranks of the natives.  Dean, from his new position, began to cut down targets of opportunity.  Careful.  Precise.  One.  Bang.  At.  Bang.  A.  Bang.  Time.

For a moment, it seemed like they might be able to pull this off...   A miracle, gritty, underdog defense that stems the tide against the overwhelming horde...  History books are full of them.

History books are also full of the ones that didn't go well.  The last stands.  The heroic martyrs.

Fletcher was still trying to wire in more power when the first strange blasts slammed into the windmill-turned-radio tower.  Sheared metal screamed as the tower began to twist and fall.  It ripped the wires from his hands and forced him to dive roughly away and cover.  A chunk of tower strut still fell across his legs despite the effort...

Then the sykers suddenly stopped screaming and stood again.  Suddenly gouts of fire and sykokinetic energy began to tear into the ranks of the ExFor troopers from the bald heads of their very own sykers.  Other troops began to suddenly switch sides, turning their guns on their fellow troops.  The anouks whooped and began to flood back in in the chaos.  The cyborg and the Ranger tried to hold it back...but too many...  No retreat...  Glowing spears of tannis and the claws of the huge chanouk lizards began to do their bloody work...

Dean knew his position was getting overwhelmed.  But he kept firing kept looking for targets.  His rifle swung on something new coming across the grassland beyond the wall.  A floating figure, surrounded by a pulsing field of energy.  It glided closer and closer.  An anouk....  but twisted...  emaciated and cadverous....  A skinny.  Dean knew what it was.  He knew it was over.  Its eyes burned with a black fire that began to swallow up everything around Dean.  Till all that was left was the eyes. The horrific, hateful, depthless eyes.

"GANKANAAR!"  The voice echoed through ever fiber of Dean's being.

---

Dean awoke suddenly, the voice still echoing through his mind.  The pain, the very real pain in his shoulder helped snap him into wakeful reality.  He was on his cot in the camper shelter the Lockesburgers had cobbled together onto the flatbed.

Fletcher was on the other cot and was also waking up...  And also in some pretty awful pain.  His legs hurt, like something hit him, really hard.  Or fell on him...  That windmill....  The radio...  The anouks attacking....  Anouks?  What the hell are anouks?

---

Harry had fallen asleep in the driver's seat.  He didn't always sleep...and it wasn't always his choice.  Up till now, if there were any dreams at all they were spun from the wicked imagination of his demon hitchhiker.  The AI had mostly taken care of that...  Till now...  Some kinda weird alien battle dream was definitely a new one...

Kelly had the sleeper cab to herself this time and woke up as suddenly as the others from the /weirdest/ dream....

---

The Black Dog was still parked in the parking lot-turned marketplace that Turk's convoy had set up in Near Dallas.  It had been a week or so since the battle.  After patching up the truck, and each other, the Lockesburg folk had gratefully set the crew up as best they could.  Adding a modified, patched up trailer camper to the flat bed to give more living space.  A few crates and pallets of farm goods suitable for trading or eating.

Hammer down, they drove the Dog down the broken highways and by ways from Lockesburg under Prudence's guidance.  They had caught up to the convoy on the last day of its stop in Near Dallas.  Tomorrow they were rolling out.  A chance for a good night's sleep in the relative safety of the convoy and the settlement....

No rest for the wicked...

WAKEY WAKEY!

Harry and Kelly - You guys are Fatigued one level.  Lack of restful sleep, distractions...horrible little flashbacks...  Hella headaches...  Harrowed are immune to fatigue from natural sources, but this ain't natural.

Dean and Fletcher - You guys wake up with a Wound.  Matching the dream.  BUT THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE.  Or is it?

You do all remember the dream in about as much detail as you might expect.

Kelly nearly banged her head on the roof of the sleeper after sitting up so violently.  Thankfully her lack of height saved her.

She felt like crap and didn't understand why for a moment.  Then it started to come back.  She reflexively looked over at the sword.  She slept with it, because of course she did.

Kelly shook her head, wiped her face with her hand.  Tried to make sense of it.  She began the process of sliding out of the cab, she needed some air.

"FUCK!," he sat up with a sudden jerking motion, hand slapping over his clearly bleeding shoulder.  That had sucked A LOT, both from a gunshot wound he couldn't have gotten (bloody evidence to the contrary) to just being back there and reliving that hell.  "Ok...ow.   What the hell was that?," he half said, half muttered.  "Also, gonna need a hand bandaging this..."

Fletcher had been dead asleep.  Locked in a nightmare, but deep in sleep none the less.  Dean's scream startled him awake and his instinct sent him jumping off his cot onto his feet before his brain had time to register what had awoken him and what sort of threat it might be getting ready to react to.

A moment later the rest of reality caught up with him and he collapsed to the floor in a heap, both hands clutching his left leg which had mysteriously refused to support him a moment longer.

He gritted his teeth against the pain as his mind struggled to put together a logical picture of what exactly was causing this particular scenario.  Though that seemed to be taking longer than it normally would have.

While part of him fought mightily to make sense of reality, another part was content to just lie on the floor for a while longer while that problem was getting worked out, so that's what he did.

Boot in progress...

Harry groaned as he came awake. He never particularly liked waking up...it meant he had slept. After he'd died, waking up was usually a bad sign -- it meant the demon inside him had gotten out to play, more often than not, and he'd be waking up in to some damn trouble or another. Once he'd been canned and the Chip was regulating his demon, that was less of a concern -- sleep was dark and empty, rather than filled with nightmares trying to break his will. It was only a minor improvement, and ever since he'd been woken back to himself after going on autopilot he'd done his best to avoid the need.

This time had been...strange. He'd dreamed, which was unusual in itself. And unlike the visions his demon sent him to try and break him, the images he recalled weren't quite personalized. And he ached. He was dead and canned -- his nerves just didn't respond the same way to sleeping funny anymore.

He looked around the cab at the others, who also seemed groggy and out of sorts. Kelly was heading out of the cab, and Dean was...bleeding?

"Shit." He muttered.

Kelly got to take in one breath before hearing someone curse from inside the camper.  Well, she couldn't exactly make the word out, but it was the cadence and volume and pitch that informed her.  Still groggy, she shambled over.

I assume the camper is built into the side of the trailer near the cab and we have one of those trailers with the smaller front door on one side.  I know they exist I've seen them!  It's either that or we'd have to navigate past any cargo in the back to enter the camper.

Hoisting herself up despite feeling like crap she banged (but not too hard) on the door.

"Hey, anyone alive in there?"

It was only half facetious...

Crowboy was on his way to the camper from his watch position at the tail with Prudence.  Looks like he heard the yelling too.  He looked none the worse for wear, other than being on the tail end of tired from night watch.

Upon seeing Kelly so groggy and out-of-doors, he immediately got concerned, " /You/ alright... Sir? Ma'am?  Ma'am-sir...". He still didn't know the best way to address her respectfully, but he tried.  No matter what she said.

Fletcher managed to pull himself together a bit when the banging on the door grabbed his attention away from dwelling on his own state for the moment.

He managed to pull himself to his feet and limp to the camper's door.  He didn't remember it being locked but his recollections weren't particularly trustworthy at the moment, so who knows.

Fletcher got it open and sagged against the doorway after doing so.  "Still 'live, for certain.  Not maybe by much though."  He informed Kelly, adding a pained grin at his little (poor) attempt at humor.

Kelly could not be fooled, well, okay she could be fooled but not by this.  She'd spent too many years in Thockmorton's medical tents handing her parents sutures and gauze and all kinds of exotic implements, and then too many more splinting broken slaves' limbs with pieces of trash and scraps just to watch them die of infection anyway.

"Ah crud.  Crowboy, circle around, I think Harry was in the cab.  Not much bothers him but make sure he's... uh... himself.  And check everyone else too let's make sure everyone's here for starters."

She then turned to Fletcher.  "As for you, drop trou, there's something horrible in your pants and I need to see it to know whether it needs ointment, stitches or amputation."

Kelly could be funny too.  She also was not very good at it.

Harry, of course, was already staggering out of the cab, so Crowboy didn't have far to go if he wanted to find the cyborg.

Fletcher nodded at Kelly, and scrabbled the few steps back to take a seat on his cot as best he could while avoiding putting weight on his leg.

He considered just cutting his pantleg as he hadn't actually had the time to inspect whatever damage he seemed to have mysteriously incurred and the potential issue of trying to remove them without causing himself more duress loomed large in his mind as a potential priority.

A moment later the consideration of the work it would take to find another pair or stitch up the current set won out and he got started gingerly removing them as best he could so Kelly could do whatever she needed to do.

Crowboy immediately hopped to as Kelly gave him a task...but he didn't have to go far.  Once he reached the opposite side of the camper, he easily saw the massive machine-man clambering down from the cab.  A quick check and he called back his thorough review of Harry's condition, "Um..  He looks...  Dead...and...covered in metal...  So.  Good?  I think?"  Having done due diligence there, he popped open the other door on the camper and took a look at Dean, "Crap!  Dean's bleeding!  The hell did you two do to each other?"

"Bullet wound.  Passed clean through," he muttered, hand clamped over the hole.  "Fletcher did nothing.  Oddly enough, got it on Faraway...in a freaking dream."  He frowned a moment.  "Not that I didn't get hurt a few times when I was actually there," he said, indicating something of his past for the first time, ever.  "But I can't remember that particular fight...though those skinnies messed with our heads more than couple times."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:47, Mon 22 Feb 2021.

Harry arrived at the cab, and listened in on Dean's explanation. He nodded. "Faraway. So that was where that was." He scowled. "I don't know all that much about Faraway, to be honest. It was a big news item for a while when I was coming up -- something about a war with natives. But I didn't pay all that much attention to it when I was alive, and even less attention after I died. You're the resident expert here, Dean...what was all that? What's a 'skinny?'" He looked around the parking lot-marketplace. "Because I dreamed, too. About a war with purple aliens riding big beasts. And I don't dream. Not since they installed the Chip in me that keeps my demon friend hogtied. But just now, I dreamed. And it sounds like you did, too. Of the same thing." He looked at Kelly and Fletcher. "Any dreams like that from you? Fletcher...did you happen to get wounded in the dream?"

As Doc Kelly did her work, Fletcher could only give Harry a shrug.

"Was havin' a nightmare, that's for sure.  Can't remember whole lot of it.  Was fightin' something maybe?"  He recalled.

"Either way I remember bein' in pain right before I woke up, or maybe as I was wakin' up?  Dreams are funny like that sometimes, whatever's happenin' 'round you sometimes gets all mixed in ta what you remember."

Looking over at Dean Fletcher added.  "I don't remember hearin' a gunshot though.  Just heard Dean shoutin'."

"Yeah."  Kelly agreed with Harry but didn't really elaborate, she didn't feel the need to.  She was still processing it.  She'd been very, very young when the world ended and just barely remembered the World That Was, it was like a pleasant, golden dream she couldn't properly remember because she was so young.  That was before Thockmorton, before being loaded into trucks and taken from one hospital tent to another, before the horrible sight of the officer executing both of her parents...

She shook her head, no point in reliving that for the 1,847,651st time, it never changed.  The point was Kelly had lived a hard existence for the parts of her life she could actually remember.  And even that hadn't prepared her for the hell she relived in that vision, it was a different kind of hell outside her experience.

"I think we all got it... Crowboy, get something clean and clamp down on Dean's shoulder there.  Just put pressure on the wound, I'll get to it next.  You might as well learn."

Kelly's "medical" skills were mostly self taught despite her parentage, she'd been too young to really understand what it was they were doing in a lot of cases, but the hygiene, handling and basic practices had sort of leaked into her skill set.  Still, her approach to "medicine" was improvised and done without proper tools, supplies or facilities and her bedside manner would horrify any proper doctor.  But, as Kelly had experienced so many times, she was often all there was to be had.

It fit in well with her Templar training though.  The ability to heal miraculously was precious and should be used as the last resort, Connor had always stressed.  It wasn't until Kelly saw someone die in the tents outside Denver who probably could have been helped by the magic, who she couldn't help out of sheer exhaustion of said ability, that she understood that lesson properly.

However she was not optimistic here, she was not quite right herself and she was trying to help someone else.

lol so let's try mundane healing first, though I don't like the odds between the Fatigue penalty and the wound penalty (of the patient, not Kelly).

I have no idea how this affects our Supply either.

07:53, Today: Kelly MacLeod rolled 5,1 using d6-2,d6-2, rerolling max with rolls of (6+1)7,3.  Healing.

Fortunately, once she got it cleaned, it wasn't as bad as it looked initially.  There actually wasn't a lot to be done for something like this, but the good news was it would heal up pretty well on its own if Fletcher didn't aggravate it.  She debated, but ultimately opted for a small suture, asking Harry to provide his non-saw appendage for something for Fletcher to both brace himself on and grab very tightly as she sewed on him.

"All right switch off Crowboy.  Go refill that bowl with some of the boiled water while I look at what we're dealing with here and get rid of this stuff with Fletcher's blood in it.  Fletch, put on some pants.  Oh and favor the other leg for a while.  Give the stitches a couple of days, I'll cut it out when you're ready."

Kelly leaned over Dean's shoulder.

"Criminy.  That really does look like a bullet wound, but... it also kind of doesn't.  That's weird dude."

08:04, Today: Kelly MacLeod rolled 3,1 using d6-2,d6-2, rerolling max with rolls of 5,3.  Healing AGAIN.

WHAMP WHAMP

Kelly took the time to clean it mostly to show Crowboy how.  "Don't poke the patient too much it hurts, but if they get too uppity you might have to apply the sedative."  She balled up her fist.  "But that just creates more work for you it's sort of self defeating.  Ugh that's a nasty one, that went in deep for a through and through.  Dammit Dean how'd you manage to get a wound like that?  Never mind.  All right there's not much you can do for something like this with your own hands."

She gave Crowboy a look like a strict nun, folded her hands over the wound, and prayed.

"You restored me to health and let me live. Surely it was for my benefit that I suffered such anguish. In your love you kept me from the pit of destruction; you have put all my sins behind your back.”

It had a double meaning of course, well, a triple meaning because it was a dig at Crowboy too.

3 Power Points spent...

08:11, Today: Kelly MacLeod rolled 2,4 using d8-1,d6-1, rerolling max with rolls of 3,5.  Faith.

And there we go, magicallyed away.

"Amen."  And almost irreverently, she snapped at Crowboy again.  "Pop quiz, why do we lay on hands last and not first!?"
This message was last edited by the player at 14:16, Tue 23 Feb 2021.

"Skinny was the slang term form Anouks most of the soldiers used.  The natives on Faraway.  Each was an unbelievably powerful psyker."  He frowned.  "And there were a bunch of human working with them.  Some called them colonists gone rogue or native.  Some believed to be mind controlled by the aliens," he added with a shrug.  It was not a pleasant topic.  Hell the entire war wasn't something he discussed, like ever.  If it hadn't been for the impossible dream, he wouldn't have ever mentioned it.

He chuckled dryly at Kelly's assessment.  "Yes, being shot in a dream and waking with the wound being real qualifies as 'weird'," he said tightly as she tried the more mundane, and very uncomfortable, medicine.  Though he sighed a bit as the pain lessened with her 'prayers'.  He didn't get it but it was hard to argue with results.  "Thanks," he added with a grateful nod.

"So...guessing none of us have a clue what caused the messed up dreams that actually hurt?"  He sure as hell didn't.

"I have a couple theories." Harry says. "Though it's just wild speculation at this point. I think this might be syker-related. Someone else from Faraway, projecting images for some reason. Or maybe some of these Anouks got to Earth somehow, and are projecting images they remember." he leans on the doorway. "It only seemed to affect those of us who were asleep at the time. Crowboy here was on watch" he looks at Crowboy, "and you didn't mention any sort of weird waking hallucinations or anything. If you did, now would be the time to tell us about it." He taps on the door frame as he continues his thought. "Might be worth asking around Turk's crew to see if anyone o' them had the same dream. And speaking of which...Fletcher, do you think you could help me get in touch with The Driver again? Maybe this thing affected him, too."