Snippet #2775621

located in Scrapyard City, a part of The War After, one of the many universes on RPG.

Scrapyard City

A ‘major’ city

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Allyson Beckett
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Scrapyard City.

It was nothing to write home about, really. A once glorious battle ship reduced to inhabit a mixture of the good, the bad and… well, the ugly. Far down below the far more “civilised” part of the city, scarred hands dug desperately for something worth to sell the nearest bloke with a gold tooth and a handful of cash while praying a more clever individual would rather just shoot the finder and keep it for themselves.

Yeah, nothing like the kill or be killed mentality crawling into a community. And here Allyson had a second thought that joining a group of people who actually knew what the fuck they were doing in life kept her nice and safe from wannabe vagrant kings and money grubbing crime lords.

“... Don’t matter where it comes from, I ain’t complainin’ about the cash.” A southern drawl underlined the muttered statement, a rough tone like voice chords scraped with sandpaper; matching the characteristics that many had come to expect from the woman standing behind the counter, tall and proud like a soldier come home from war.

Well, not so much war, but anyone brave enough to cross the wastes might as well be considered as such. Mad people with a penchant for looking death in the eyes and playing it as though that consequence means very little to them in the long run. Most paid their dues, but everyone did eventually.

Nobody escaped death…

Allyson mused on a thought, eyes lingering on several customers having a blast playing some illegal dice in the corner of the Scrapyard Bar. An unimaginative name to be sure, but it did the legwork that Allyson was very rarely willing to do. Marketing wasn’t her strong suit despite some individuals who were willing enough to spread the word with a bit more fervour than she was. Alcohol helped, too, and in about two months the woman’s bar had been struggling to keep up with a full house every other night.

“Oi! You cheatin’ bastard!”

Though sometimes she did wish business hadn’t gone so well…

Snapped from a bemusing moment of peace, Allyson’s eyes shot from one table to another, a hawk-like vision making note of some ragtag men (probably mercenaries, was hard to tell with every type of wastelander strapping saucepans on their shoulders) bellowing at the top of their voices at a not so clever man wearing a mixture between an engineering get-up and a tattered biker jacket with holes so big you may as well not bother putting it on.

Coke bottle glasses hang loosely on the man’s nose, his voice something not unlike a squeaky mouse panicking at the sight of several cats eager to leap at it for sport.

“I-I-I eh, I didn’t-t ch-h-heat, sirs.” He stammered on, clearly incapable of getting a clue that, maybe it was better he’d keep his mouth shut for once.

*KABLAM!*

The first blow hit right in the lower jaw, probably dislocating the thing, and it didn’t take Allyson long to jump in; A cold-hard stare piercing the pair of muscle bound mercenaries like a sharpened blade. “Alright, that’s ‘bout far enough fellas.” The woman spoke, a monotonous tone to it all. She cared very little for what had happened. In fact, the little mouse was as much a fool as the big guys, but if there was one rule Allyson would uphold. “No fightin’ in mah bar.”

She had a split second window to evade the right hook that came shortly after her demand, and with a nimble step to the right the bartender saw the opportunity to launch a solid elbow into the back of the man’s head with a resounding Thunk!, followed by a Snap! as one hand took hold of the man’s shoulder and a heavy boot slammed against a vulnerable part of a lower leg.

It was then that the second mercenary thought to join in with a not too subtle battle cry that gave Allyson ample time to duck underneath the forward jab of a broad fist after which she swiftly turned around with a savage punch to the man’s exposed side. Shattering a rib or two in the process.

Mercy was a foregone conclusion, but as foolhardy as the two men were they had received the message well enough. Two pairs of black eyes stared in shock as Allyson braced for another well-placed kick, hands raising up in surrender before whimpering (and limping) toward the exit in disgrace.

“T-t-thank y-”

“Shut up.” The woman cut in, approaching the poor fellow with something not unlike disgust. The man winced when she touched the side of his face. “Learned ya lesson?” A rhetoric, probably.

The man nodded weakly and went in search for a medic to tend to his jaw. The bartender sighed, pausing for a moment before promptly stating. “Alright, folks! Back to ya drinks!”

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