I finally got to be a player again this past sunday.
it sparked my muse, so I wrote up a little something about my character returning to the hide-out after a mission.
just a heads up, it probably fizzled out at the end, because I wrote the majority of it yesterday and only just now wrote the ending.
also, I may have to take down "it's in the vents" as I'm going to try and get it published in the near future, so if you wanna go back and read it do it now.
"a hard day's work"
I let out a deep sigh as the warehouse doors rattle closed behind me. I stomp in place a few times to get as much of the filth off of my coat and boots as possible before making my way to the washing machine, I peel off my overcoat and strip out the coat of steel plates that it hides and throw it in the washing machine, along with my socks. Miraculously, my pants had been completely untouched by the proverbial storm of filth my companion had generated in the sewers.
I stomp across over to the metal walkway that leads to my “loft” as I’ve come to call it. I open the door to what probably used to be a manager’s office and gaze at my current home.
The room is a sty. Dirty clothes and cover the floor, with ammo boxes scattered amongst them like land mines, eager to claim a stubbed toe. the military style cot along wall looks like a midden heap of dirty laundry and various personal effects, and an old book that was dog-eared from use. Along the opposite wall on a folding table was a partially constructed still. Along the 4th wall was the only thing in the room remotely clean, a weapons locker that contained my .50 caliber sniper rifle, as well as containing a resting place for my trusted shotgun. The room smells faintly of unwashed socks.
But it’s home.
Before I deal with anything else I pick my way across the few empty (not clean, just empty) spots on the floor and remove the cleaning kit from the weapons locker and begin cleaning my shotgun. Once it’s cleaner than anything in this room has business being, I place it and the cleaning kit back into the locker and close it.
I walk back across the room and strip off my flak jacket and hang it on the hook next to my door, along with the plate-steel-tile armor I wear under my coat. The hook the coat hangs on snaps off and falls to the ground in a heap. I stare at it for a moment, willing it to fix itself.
It remains on the floor. Stubborn, mocking me.
I sigh, resolving to deal with it later (which I know I really won’t) and walk over to the bed, it creaks in protest as I sit down on it after shoving myself a clear spot amongst the dirty laundry.
I reach over and punch a button on my stereo. “She Rides” by Danzig starts to play. “good choice” I say to nobody in particular, the machine is on random. I dig in the midden heap to my left and pull out an old humidor. I open it and examine the contents. Only 6 cigars left.
There’s no justice in this world.
I select the last unflavored one from the batch and light it, hoping the smoke will cover up the sock-stench. I continue puffing on the cigar as I pull out my very old, and very battered, notepad and start writing some things down.
I need to get in contact with the scrounger.
I need to figure out how to deal with the sewer patrol on my own.
I need to figure out how to get Valerie and the undergrounders supplies without giving away their hideout.
I need to keep the rest of the group unaware of my actions.
Sounds simple enough, but implementing any of them is going to be difficult.
First things first, I need to get in touch with the scrounger, I can worry about everything else while he gets what Valerie and I need.
I’ll tackle the rest of this after my cigar. I sit in silence in my loft, lit only by the light filtering through the grime covered windows, and the pathetic flame at the end of my cigar. And wait.