Join Date: Feb 2007
Location: Long Island, NY
The deadbolt released with a metallic clunk, and The Immortal opened the portal, allowing the light of day to spill into our chambers. The three of us strode brazenly out into the warm Florida sun, smiling to be out of the bitter cold of the New York system.
We knew it would be hours yet before Dennis could muster an appreciable level of consciousness and functionality, so we set out on foot.
Our natural athleticism allowed us to traverse the terrain with speed despite being on foot, and with maps from Google Mainframe beamed down into our com devices, we were able to deftly navigate the small town.
I grinned as I noticed a beaten down pub across the street, knowing full well that it was the sort of place where memories were made. Another block traversed revealed a supply depot of the supermarket variety, and knowing that supplies would soon be needed we made a detour.
Pickle and The Immortal let their impetuousness get the better of them, and rushed into the supply depot. I a seasoned veteran of many procurement missions, kept my head about me, and requisitioned a rolling cargo cage before entering knowing the burden of supplies would be too much to carry by hand.
We made our way winding through the depot and commissioned local and imported produce; plums, bananas, and oranges. These fruits were supplemented with mixed nuts, and for hydration purposes we procured a case of water, and several half gallon containers of Gatoraid. I looked upon the toxic substance Gatoraid which had been foisted upon the masses as necessary battle supplementation. I would not partake in the corporate charade to poison the masses with excessive sugar and burdensome pricing in return for no actual benefit.
I was under-caffeinated, and was lost within the depths of my own mind, and so did not notice the cause for our company halting, and engaging immediately an elder gentleman nearly thirty feet away.
After a moment, I realized that I was walking alone as my companions made haste towards the gentleman, and so I hurriedly turned the wheeled cage, and made speed to rejoin them in case we needed to perpetuate violence upon this man.
As I approached, I could tell from the body language of my companions that they intended to interrogate this man for information, and not murder him in the aisles of the supply depot.
We cornered the man, pinning him up against an orange stand, and I sealed off his only route of escape with the cargo cage. Suddenly I realized why it was that we were interrogating this particular denizen, as he wore a "Nike Tennis" shirt, and tennis shoes.
Knowing my strengths, I hung back and let them do the talking. I was not the most silver tongued man in the cosmos, especially not before I fed my Kaf addiction, which served to curb my general disdain for humanity.
"He is taking too long to answer the questions, he is lying, kill him!" the voice in my head pleaded. I grasped the handle of the cargo cage my corded muscles flexing, but I summoned patience as information began to flow from our prisoner.
He told us that battle grounds were nearby, but they would be occupied completely until noon, with many of the combatants being French folk. He claimed that they were likely no match for us however. The Immortal quickly picked up on his duplicity, and attempt to escape with his life through use of flattery, and asked how he knew such a thing.
The man quickly realized that the conversation was not going in a favorable direction, and tried to weasel his way to freedom saying that we looked to be at least 5.0 level combat legionnaires.
Having enough of his cryptic directions, and ominous fortellings, we let the man escape, and he scampered off.
We made our way to the paying station, and each of us offered forth a fistful of credits. As our purchases were being compartmentalized, I cornered a youngish female in the employ of the supply depot. "I need coffee." I confided in her, the slight tremble in my voice accentuating the urgency of my situation.
"We have coffee in the bakery section, it is nothing fancy, $1 per cup." she told me nearly apologetically.
What was it about me that caused people to constantly think that I would not tolerate common things, and only partook in finery? Shrugging, I doffed my satchel, handing it over to my companions. I instructed them to divide the supply payload between the three of our backpacks, that we may evenly share the burden, while I went to investigate this non-fancy coffee.
Leaving them at the front of the depot, I made my way to the baked goods department, and located the station of which the lady spoke. There was a coffee machine, as well as two crusty pots which carried the acrid aroma of overbaked Kaf.
I was desperate, but not that desperate.
You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.