Allyson Beckett

"Y'all behave now. Don't want'cha guts spilled over ma' bar."

0 · 133 views · located in Scrapyard City

a character in “The War After”, originally authored by Byte, as played by RolePlayGateway


ImageImage BASICS
Name: Allyson Marie Beckett
Age: Thirty-three
Gender: Female
Job: Bartender / Ex-mercenary



Finest woman you ever saw, if you’re into the gruff military type. A body carved from years of scavenging and the occasional tumble with some angry cat or other wild animal (or, y’know, the rampant assholes walking the wastelands like they own the damn place) have made Allyson a woman fit for fighting the best of people. Heck, she’s the bouncer of her own little bar and many patrons would wager a bet on her winning any time. Other than that, the shaggy auburn hair and misty-grey eyes tell of a hardened mentality that wouldn’t really give way to pure kindness. Of course, the occasional smile does say otherwise.


On the record, Allyson's a mean and lean machine. Don't let the Cheshire grin welcoming you to the city put you off-guard, this is one cold-hard wasteland woman you wouldn't want to make mad. In all honesty, Allyson isn't exactly at home integrated into a city; her survivalist instinct and self-implied laws proving to be a consistent hassle for the local law enforcers in her particular district. She's knowingly territorial about her little shack, and tends to protect it on her own terms from anyone she doesn't consider either a do-gooder or another mouth to feed. What it comes down to is that Allyson's her own damn woman in spite of having joined a community. She's no yes-man in any way, and wouldn't mind blowing the whole place up if it meant saving herself and anyone else worth mentioning in her personal utopia.


A scowl like Allyson’s hard to come by, and the piercing grey eyes have given the woman a perfected face with which to loom and gloom the next best person out of the room. And given her tendency for promises rather than threats, she’s quite the persuading little meanie when it comes to forcing a standstill. Handy for keeping the bar from becoming a fighting pit, even more so when you don’t want uninvited company to pinch your pockets or other unpleasant things. Her mercenary background has also given Allyson a proper gun-toting training. She’s a great shot with bolt-action rifles and has a good sense for fisticuffs (seriously, she’s got a mean right hook and a deadly knee to the gut). Adequate at maintaining the more archaic weapons from the past Allyson’s the go-to person for anyone who hasn’t managed to get their mitts on the fanciest arms.


A bolt-action rifle named Bessie McLaw, a battered and broken weapon duct-taped so often you’d swear it’s about to fall to pieces, but it hasn’t failed its master just yet. Other than that, Allyson has taken a shine to a combat knife she once pinched from some unlucky raider. Hey, never know when it could save your life.


Relics from the past are a good way to tell whether or not something’s happened, or is going to happen. And while Allyson hasn’t been inclined to give much of a shit to the past, she’s certainly been told time and time again about the good old days by her late parents. Didn’t change the fact her folks were capped in the head by some oddball disagreeing with them over the definition of “nationalist”, and ratted them out to some militant group aiming to keep the peace.

Wouldn’t do to let someone reminisce over the past, even glorify it. But again, the past isn’t a concept Allyson has a firm grip on either way. Not from first glance, and there doesn’t seem to be any other clues that would prove the contrary.

So, raised with a gun in hand and a gloomy outlook that said to give Hell to whoever wants your knicknacks, Allyson was a mercenary born and bred. People paid her and she protected them. Some painted a mercenary’s life as shady, a grey area that meant you might as well save the poor folk as likely as you’d steal from them. But Allyson didn’t sway, it was one of the things she could claim as having honour. Caravans looking for a solid scout with a knack for spotting and killing would-be marauders weren’t double-crossed. Instead, any who did gamble with Allyson were shunned and given a proper staring down. There were some hard times where the issue was muddied, of course, but those were rare and far between the better deeds the woman had done. She was a glorified marshall, dammit, no matter what some thought.

It was one of the latter times that Allyson managed to find solace in the company of a treasure hunter by the name of Lynn. Food and money had grown scarce, and after a nasty run-in with some of the local police the woman hadn’t much to claim as her own anymore barring a broken rifle and some crumbs for breakfast.

She was promised a cut if she’d help the other woman retrieve old world data. The road was tough and the place well-defended by raiders with a proper funding, so efficiency and a good eye was needed. The job went off without a hitch, and besides some money to spend Allyson found, for the first time in her life, a companion she couldn’t go without. Over the years the two traveled together, earning a wage and enjoying each others company when they weren’t hunted by some angry bloke with a machete.

However, eventually all good things must come to an end. After a serious accident during one Hell of a job, Allyson found that her partner was no longer the same person. Things had changed, and feeling she couldn’t (or perhaps wouldn’t) adjust the mercenary left after a heated argument… And so she fled to a remote settlement, making a life as a bartender for any willing drunkard or other who’d brave her bar.

So begins...

Allyson Beckett's Story


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Allyson Beckett

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#, as written by Byte
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.


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!”


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dr. Addler Character Portrait: Allyson Beckett

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Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat...

The sound of hurried light patter of small feet was barely audible over the much louder city life. Running rather nimbly through the rough n' tumble was an unusual sight, a tall figure dressed fully in white-and-blue, body covered in a light-blue zipped jumpsuit, giving the vague impression of a female form, and over the suit was an open flowing white lab coat. The face of the figure was obscured by a triangular visor, and a hood even hid the back of her head. Clothes looked fairly clean, cleaner than typical at least, with only minor tearing. The figure was carrying a large duffel bag as well, filled with supplies of some sort, and handling it pretty well.

"Ey, watch it!" a man yelled as the figure gracefully spun around to avoid bumping into him. As she did so, the coat revealed the back of the figure, a black symbol on the back of the suit resembling a stylized arrow pointing down with the number 17. To the few that have seen this symbol before, or at least were vaguely familiar, would know of some horror stories of a wartime bio-engineering facility, and a mad doctor operating just on the outskirts. "The hell?" the man mumbled, as the figure turned to quietly bow to him briefly, before sprinting off again, leaving him and a few others befuddled by the encounter.

This figure, as a name-tag dangling from the coat would indicate, possessed only the name of Lumina, and also apparently considered a physician herself by the inclusion of a nurse title. She was here to perform errands on behalf of the mad doctor himself, Dr. Hayden Addler. This would also imply, also, that the elegant form behind the suit was something not quite human, given the good doctor's reputation. Regardless, she had money, and was causing no harm, and yet, not all are okay with even that.

Making her way out, she happened by a bar, catching the aftermath of some sort of scuffle that occurred recently. She stopped, watching as a couple men came limping out the building. She tilted to the side, watching them curiously, them on the other hand being in far too much pain, and far too defeated to really pay much attention to their surroundings. Then a third, an sheepish fellow with thick glasses, holding his jaw, apparently, by his shifting eyes, in search of someone to attend to his painful situation.

Pat, pat, pat, pat...

The man soon had a shadow cast over him as Lumina now loomed over him, staring deeply at him. He nearly fell back at the figure's sudden approach, bracing for the worst as two gloved hands reached out for him, barely hiding the small claws on their tips. Jabs of pain would go through his head as the being felt his bruised face, only to utter confused and pained grunts. Shortly after, forcing the man's mouth open slightly, pressing a thumb inside his mouth and over a molar, the other holding his head still, and in a quick motion, and pop, pushes the jaw straight and then lifts up relocating it, before letting the man go and drop to a sitting position on the ground, holding his face in shock of what just transpired, and within only a few seconds.

"You stopped, what are you doing?" a tired man's voice popped through a communication device in the visor. Lumina tilted her head putting a finger on the side of her head where an ear would be for a human. "That is not a place to linger, the locals aren't exactly known for their... hospitality."


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dr. Addler Character Portrait: Aster "Siren" Thrace Character Portrait: Allyson Beckett Character Portrait: Lynn Harper Character Portrait: Captain Invictus

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Lumina who was previously paying attention to her superior would now find herself catching sight of a large war machine hovering through the city. "R-Ro-," she muttered, the first utterance she has made in quite some time. The mouse of a man had likely crawled away by now, likely to evade any kind of fee for the... likely mutant nurse's services.

"What was that? No, never mind, I can see it from here. Just ignore it, we don't get involved with... automatons," the doctor said to Lumina, a clear tone of discontent at mention of the machine. It was no mystery that the doctor had little to no regard for mechanical entities, aside from as tools, machinery to him would never replace the delicate subtleties of biology. "Besides, who knows, it may mark you as a threat or something. You wouldn't exactly radiate a human signal, regardless of noble intent. Best to be on the safe side and return immediately."

Lumina sighed, but wouldn't be disobedient, and took off again at a decent pace, keeping watch on the machine for any movement. Her destination was to make her way back to the clinic, the supplies in tow were of importance to maintain the medical machinery, and... other facility operations.