Leos Kroh's Story

Leos sat patiently within his AH/G-52, the main systems on standby in case he had to move. His prey was the train, hiding inside a hole like the worm it is. He was the bird of pray, waiting ever so diligently on cracking open that shell and find what kinds of tech hidden within.

His bird, dubbed the Insurgence, was once a military masterpiece. Twin Atares Turbofans dominated the sides of the craft, serving as the main propulsion as well as doubling as wings. Modified to carry up to 6 passengers, as well as cargo, it served well as his mobile residence. Sure, the original blue paint was wearing off, chipping away from the sands, and that a new paint job was in order, but it would change little, for the simple fact that he is one of the few to own such fine machinery in nearly flawless condition.

A few days ago, he had flown into town to trade some salvaged tech that he found laying about, mostly radiators and compressors and other tidbits that are needed. Every once in a while he'll scavenge up a weapon or two, sell them for parts. But he was also here for another reason: to refuel.

Sure, the robed tinman wasn't known for his attitude towards people, but how could he fix up a damaged generator and make it run better than it would originally run. He had visited the bar the previous morning, concluded some trades, mostly for food. He would always wear that helmet of his in public, further adding the mystery behind that mask. Nobody exactly knew who he was, and he wanted to keep it that way.

The Posse knew of him, but didn't know him per se. He was brought onto the gang as a tech-Specialist, as well as their emergency ride in case raids didn't turn out as well as they planned. He's one of the newer members, mostly because he thought it would be best for him to stay away from the other members most of the time. Call him when needed. Each one of them carried a special, hidden communicator on them, making it easier to coordinate their activities, share information, and so Leos would be able to make pickups and offer transportation. He was a ghost, particularly to those who tried hunting him down. While not stealthy in the least bit, he is often skilled in leaving nothing to track him with, and he likes it that way.

"Ghost to Gang, what are the cards?" Asking over the communicator, each on a private, secured channel that Leos had fine-tuned each of the communicators to himself.

James Doolin had been watching the train ever since it pulled in. The antiqued machine needed to be lubricated at multiple stops on its way to the other side of the Mississippi; it was the process of a time before them, like an echo reappearing long after one has spoken. Indeed, James had always enjoyed seeing trains; they were the most complicated and interesting amalgamations of steel and fire that had ever graced his little farming community of Abilene, Kansas. Their whistles could be heard from over the largest hill he'd seen until he was 16, from what seemed like miles away; as soon as it was confirmed, he'd race to meet it with his brothers and sisters, waving the conductor on as the shipment of coal or food or people passed away from them like a dream at dawn. Those were the good days, filled with simple sunsets and pretty neighbor girls. As Leos' voice buzzed in his ear, he decided that it was all worth the work he was doing so far away from home.

"Ganger to tha Ghost, we's got a straight. Be ready to cash, please."

The plan was simple enough. The real question was if it would go right. He hadn't tried anything like they were about to, but after riding with the Kansas Rangers during the Bloodletting, he hadn't done much of anything more than twice. It was the lifestyle, the idea of adaptation inside the frame of their capabilities, which was more than they'd figure a lot of the time. Either way, it was time to sing old Willy and Val their cues; he had taken to singing old folk songs learned on the trail in Kansas as a way of confirming to his 'Posse' that he saw elements of their heists ready to be executed.

"Ah been with Sally, ah been with Sue, ah been with Cindy and 'er sister, too." He huffed up a breath. "Now ahm tryna settle down, start a family with that cute lil Kim," James paused a moment to take note of the plume of smoke coming up from the great steam engine on the train, hissing with energy. "But now that ah tasted blood, now this wine tastes too thin."

He realized most of the townsfolk seemed ugly. Really ugly. Royal Territory Of California ugly. These weren't farmers, surely; these were folk who made their living in the fort. Self-sustenance inside 'civilized' areas always resulted in the worst mish-mash of genetic code that could be combined. A blender of the bullshit; only the weakest members of the species lived in towns like this. James bent his head down to spit in the dirt, more out of contempt than necessity. One out of every five women who passed him were even worth glancing back at; out in the farmland, a farmboy NEVER gave the neighbor girls less than two looks. Maybe it was the water that made them so pretty; he had to admit, the water source of Fort Travis Junction seemed tepid, likely infected with some ungodly parasite. Perhaps this was God's own way of telling James that this state was cursed and needed to be robbed of their treasures, such as the one on the train he had caught wind about. Either way, all he kept thinking about was the sweetness of little Jolene Hutchinson.

"Ah got a needle, don' be alarmed, it shoots streams o' lovely things into my arm. Well ah'd sell my own mother for that sweet heroin." He tipped his hat to an older woman who looked back at him, somewhat disgusted or horrified at the lyrics. "Oh, now that I've tasted blood, now this wine seems too thin."

He began strolling toward the saloon. Maybe they didn't call it a saloon, or it wasn't titled the saloon, but Goddammit, it was a saloon. They served beer and pussy, and where he came from, that was called a saloon. Regardless, he didn't see much of a fighting presence there; no military or peacekeepers in uniform, for sure. If there were, they'd be served copper-coated candy if they decided to put up a fight once the gang rose into action.

"Sometimes the white coats, they hide black hearts, we learna to sugar coat the same black guards." The last part of this stanza was one of his favorites, surely one lyric he'd take to his grave; the Kansas Mounted Rangers sang the song often, and they'd get the loudest when the last stanza came about. "Well, ah turn lead into gold, ah'll cure original sin. Oh, now that ah tasted blood, now this wine seems too thin."

He stopped and looked out. He hadn't seen Willy or Val anywhere. Maybe he wasn't looking hard enough; maybe he didn't WANT to see them. At the very least, he didn't want to give their position away by constantly eyeing them as they moved, so he stood in place, leaning against one of the posts outside the saloon doors, staying out of the way as he reached into his coat and found a ratty cigar, which promptly went between his lips as he lit up a large flame from several matches at one time. He puffed the smoke out, enjoying the flavor as he took one last look around before breaking radio silence; nobody was talking. If they didn't acknowledge him, he'd have to improvise, and that would be too much fun.

"Willy, how's the rest of the song go, ah?"

"Ganger to tha Ghost, we's got a straight. Be ready to cash, please."

The commlink buzzed to life, something that had felt like an eternity and it was exactly the thing that Leos was waiting for. He reached overhead in the cockpit, flipping a couple switches here, turning a couple dials there, then punched a small red button labeled Ignition.

As he pushed it in, the external fans built into the wings started spinning, generating enough lift to push the craft from the ground it was perched. The Insurgence was alive...

"This is Ghost. Little blue bird is in the air, I repeat, blue bird is in the air."

Finishing those words, with his left hand, Leos set his little radio on loop, playing his little "pump music".

The blue metal beast roared to life, its nose shifting into a climb, quickly hovering away from its perch. It thrusted forwards, maintaining altitude as well as gaining speed, its nose now slightly leaning towards the ground. Leo check his altometer...

10 meters and rising...

15 meters and rising...

He looked out through the cockpit's windshield, pulling back on the throttles. People outside didn't know if this guy had a deathwish, appearing as if he wasn't going to make it over the station.

25 meters and rising... And Leo had made it over the station's topmost exterior paneling. Veering off away from the town's fortifications, the Insurgence appeared to be heading straight into a dust storm.

"Ghost to gang, my little birdie goes tweet tweet tweet..."