Post by rantinan on Apr 26, 2007 0:27:55 GMT -5
I starts a new fic, set in the shelflands shared zoids continuity. enjoy!
Roadtrippin!
The Shelflands 1/24 fic
09:30, (Date unspecified) North West Bumfluff.
Norway Bufu sweltered under the hot summer sun. A typical shelflands town, in an atypical ocean location, consisting of a scattering of corrugated iron huts surrounding some more permanent structures. A Filling station, a tackle n bait shop, and a thick walled, thin roofed ammo store were the only “permanent” structures, apart from the rows upon rows of hotels. Through the winter and spring months of Zi, the tropical desert location was popular with tourists. But as the summer temperature climbed to its mid 40’s tourists fled for more salubrious climes, abandoning Norway Bufu to its normal population, an oddball mix of fishermen and musicians. Out near the dockyard, the water rippled suspiciously in the midday sun. A bulbous white protrusion with an underslung black gun and a bright orange lens broke the surface, twisting this way and that. Finally, happy with its survey of peaceful obliviousness, the rest of the sinister looking scorpion zoid surfaced, water streaming off the white armour and grey crushing claws. It moved swiftly towards the beach, parking in the shadow of a beached Maccrutius with a fishing trawl system installed in palace of the normal AZ railcannons.
A Deathpion. Although allegedly it was the ancestor of the mighty Deathstinger, no one really believed it of this 12 meter long scorpion. Barely armed well enough to deal with an aggressive anti-Zoid infantry squad, with a cramped uncomfortable horizontal cockpit, the only good thing about the zoid was its sensor suite and low profile. In other words this was the perfect Zoid for someone who wanted to avoid detection. This particular variant was known as the “armoured” version, with a more modern sensor suite denoted by orange lenses, and losing much of its cooling systems in favour of a thin plate of armour across the previously exposed cockpit. Given the temperature, it would have been no surprise to any observer, if there were any stupid enough to be out in this heat, to see the cockpit crack open and the pilot come out gasping for air. He staggered peculiarly, sea water streaming off his body to sizzle on the pavement. Finally he let out a huge gasp, his first for a while, as if he’d just remembered how to breathe. which he had. A Merdian, a member of the species of human who had genetically manipulated themselves to live the bulk of their lives underwater. Years ago, their kind had attempted to conquer the coastlines of Zi. In more recent times they had lived peaceable enough lives, but the site of one in a costal town could still arouse suspicion... If there was anyone outside to observe him.
As oxygen started entering his body via lungs instead of gills, the blue colour of his skin faded, being replaced by a more normal looking pink. Rummaging around in the ‘pion’s small cargo compartment, he fished out a collared shirt that would cover his gills, and then headed towards the nearest pub.
On the south side of Norway Bufu, hills lead up in a series of ridges towards a sharp line of hills. On the tallest of these, stood a man and his Zoid. Neruohelmet held in one hand, he posed dramatically, his cape billowing in the wind and revealing the laser sword hanging from the belt of his black and red flight suit.
“I have travelled the four corners of the earth for this. From my home of Arcadia to this desolate hell hole, I have tracked what I seek, and now it lies within my grasp!”
A casual observer from another planet might have wondered who the man was talking to, but his accoutrements and trappings revealed him as a Darth, one of those rare people who shared a near mystical bond with their zoids, and who also indulged in inspired tinkering and customization. Obviously he was talking to his zoid, that stood next to him. Almost twice the hight of the man from Arcadia, it was a big yellow ostrich. Yellow. Metalic canary yellow. It was so shiny that it hurt to look at in the bright tropical sun. A roadskipper, or posibably a Zeeva0 judging by the green colour of the searchlight cover, that had been darthed by its companion. “Let us ride Choco! We must be at the shops at their opening!” “Wark” the Zoid muttered, seeming to agree as it knelt for its master to board.
A dust trail rose above the eastern road into town. Knuckling along in the “zoids only” section of dirt track came a single, hunched shape. Red light flickered fitfully from the singular eye of the black and white metal beast as it headed towards town, determinedly putting the Draken Empire further behind it with every step. Close observation would reveal fresh patches of paint, as if logos had been sandblasted from the Zoid. Close observation of the pilot was not possible, he was wearing a form fitting body suit in tan with white and grey highlights, and a helmet that concealed his face. The only clue to his identity was the baroque music, already ancient by the time mankind left homeworld, playing on his Zoid’s sound system. The yellow Zoid thundered to a halt in front of the Tackle and Bait shop. The helmeted pilot looked from a hand held data pad, to the sign, and back to the data pad.
“This is the place.”
“Wark”
“Why would it be in this place?”
“Wark”
“Realy? You think he sells them to the tourist trade then? You’re awfully clever for a Zeeva0, aren’t you choco?”
“Kewl!” added the ostrich Zoid, nodding it’s head emphatically. He noticed the “no helmets” sign on the door, sighed dramatically and removed his helmet. In the dead still air of town his hair hung in a greasy black mass behind him, and he blinked in the sun, his pasty white completion revealing that he didn’t get enough of it. Muttering to himself even more, he fished around in his flight suit, pulled out a pair of thick glasses, and slipped them on.
Looking somewhat less like a Darth now, and more like another sterotype, he walked into the bait shop.
The crusty old sailor looked him up and down, and dropped that old chestnut “We don’t get many of your type round here boy.” “Where is it old man?”
“Where is what boy?”
“The PlayBox 2500 games, old man. Don’t piss me about!” “Hold yer hosses boy. I pack all that up when the tourists leave. S in the box over there.”
The box was old and salt stained. It had “crap for gullible idiots” written on it.
“Whaz in there that an Arcadian would trek alla way out here?” The young man was already rummaging in the contents of the box, but he turned to look at the storeowner. Weatherbeaten skin, sunbleached eyes, hands scared from trawls, obviously a retired fisher. “You might understand at that. Ever chase the big one?” The fisherman nodded. Every fisherman knew what it was like to have a prize fish escape them, and the lust that could drive a perfectly ordinary guy into a fish crazed lunatic.
“I fish in a different sea. In a sea of mediocre releases, half finished betas released as final product, consumerist pap and sports simulations, I hunt the few playable gems, the greatest games of mine and previous generations. Recently one title has eluded me. The ultimate collector’s edition of the latest release of a franchise so ancient that it travelled with us from homeworld. When the local gamesluts fudged my preorder, I set off on a quest to find a copy. I have travelled from the mountains of Arcadia, all through the UZN hunting this game. Eventualy I broke into the distributor’s offices, hacked their computers, and stole the delivery recipts. Your shop as the furthest flung, the most remote, and the only one not to have put in a request for more stock. And here it is!” He exclaimed, flourishing a metal case only slightly corroded from the salt air.
“Final Metal Fantasy Solid XXVIXC by Circlesoft-Konamix!”
The young Darth laughed manically.
The old man looked on with an expression of disdain, until the young Darth tossed four times the discounted sticker price onto the counter, when it morphed into disbelief.
“This realy was yer big one wasn’t it?’
“Ayup.”
“Round here boy we have a tradition. When a man lands his big one, he tells the pub, and then his drinks are on the crowd. Most of the fishermen will already be there. “ The old man grinned hugely. “Nobody is gonna believe this. What a great fish story. What was your name again boy?”
“Bulimer. Darth Bullimer. You can call me DB.”
The party was in full swing by the time the sandblasted Gorem Knuckled to a halt in front of the bar.
Its rider, still clad in his pilot suit and helmet shimmed down a rope ladder, and sauntered in to be confronted with a strange sight indeed. A bunch of booze sodden, toughened sailors were cheering on in shocked disbelief as a lanky haired black suited Arcadian related a seemingly improbable tale. Even more bizzarely, a yellow painted Zeeva0 had its head stuck in through a window, and was kewling enthusiastically too. “So then”, the Arcadian said, “After they saw through my cunning plan of dressing up as the chairman’s personal assistant, Choco here reminded me of a certain fact.”
“Wa waz da?” asked a sailor type, far to gone with drink to bother with proper diction.
“Kewl!”
“Well he reminded me that a laser sabre makes for one hell of a lock pick. So I plugged mine into his charge socket, and simply sliced through the lock after hours. Musta tripped a silent alarm though cause after I’d finished checking the stocking listings, the computer room door wouldn’t open.” “Well dat wouldna beena problem would it? slurred the sailor. “Cut yer way out as easy as in?”
“You might think so, but the batteries for these things”, Said the arciadian, flourishing the laser sabre over his head, “They last about two minutes before they run flat. I had about 30 seconds left or one door’s worth. So instead I cut my way into the vents, and ninjaed out via the ducts!”
“Yall didn’t think to see if the door pushed instead of pulled?”
“No.. Oops.”
A silence filled the bar. The Zeeva0 snickered, which led to a general outbreak of laughter.
“Boy, thers one thin’ I learned listin to ya. You got smarts ‘n passion, but when it comes to life, you dumb as a bag fullo hammers.” “Yeah” Chipped in another. “Never go to sea!”
“Nuh uh.”
“Oh no fear of that guys. I spotted a whole bunch of interesting things travelling through the wastelands. So I’m a gonna explore them, n’ see what I can see.”
This was met by a general good natured muttering, as the crowd dispersed. Several of the younger members drifted over to one corner of the pub, and began assembling a drum kit.
The Drak drifted up to the bar, ordered by pointing at a beer spigot, and then started drinking it through a straw.
The Merdian slunk out of his shadowy corner and sat next to the young darth.
“So.. Um.. you know the wastelands right?”
“I’m going exploring there yes.” stated the Darth, not quite ready to reveal his utter ignorance.
“I need to head inland. Can I tag along with you?” “How? You cant climb on the back of Choco!” The yellow headed Zeeva0 warked an emphatic agreement.
“I have my own zoid.. a Deathpion. I just don’t want to travel alone.”
“I guess. Why?”
“Because.”
The pub was by this time ignoring the lads, instead concentrating on the
stage. The Drum kit proclaimed the band name, “Sith Maiden”
A couple of the geezers were talking animatedly.
“I hear that The singer of this band is young Bruce.”
“Who?”
“You know him, Eddie Dickon’s son.”
“Ahh Bruce. You shoulda said.”
“I did you drunk Git!”
Back at the bar, the man still in his helmet turned towards the two men talking “No really. Why?” he asked the Merdian, his voice was soft, muted, but with an edge of command to it still. Perhaps the voice of a military man who led by example, rather than shouting.
“Tell me why you wearing that helmet?”
If a helmet could be said to glare, this one did.
“I like it!”, said the kid. “Darth Bullimer at your service, Mr mysterious stranger from the Draken empire!”
“John Smith” Claimed the Meridnan, looking a little pale. “Truth be told, I can respect your secrets sir.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I shudder to think what these rural slobs would think if they discovered I was a Merdian.”
“You’re a Merdian? Exclaimed DB, his high pitched outburst audible over the murmurings of the crowd.
“Urmmm Ohshitshitshit” moaned John, as the crown turned as one, hatred in their eyes and scaling knives in their hands. He threw himself through the window on toe the back of the startled ostrich Zoid, throwing it into gear and belting towards the outskirts before it even had time to wark in protest.
“HE STOLE MY ZOID! HE MUST PAY!” screamed DB. “He’s a Merdian, he MUST DIE!” screamed the old sailors. The bar emptied in a hurry, with the irate Darth stomping over to the one lone Deathpion.
“Open you piece of *Watch your language!*, your master has done a runner with my Zeeva0”
“Chitter”
“No really, he has!”
“Chitter.
“Oh you meen he’s? Then?”
“Chitter!”
“Oh I see. And you’re here to?”
“Chitter!”
Bullimer calmed down, grinned evily, then slapped on his helmet. “You know what? I am going to take him up on his offer to travel with me. This will be way to good to miss.”
“CHITTER!”
The Gorem stomped up next to the deathpion. It made a gesture to the infantry fighting platform strapped to its ape like back, obviously indicating the Darth should hitch a ride.
“You gonna chase him?’ asked the kid.
The Gorem nodded.
“Cool!’
Hopping from gyro cap to hydraulics cowling, the now sinisterly helmeted man climbed up to the platform, grabbing the fighting straps in one hand and banging on the cockpit cover with the other.
The Gorem knuckled forward as Bullimer plugged his helmet into the zoid’s intercom system.
“Hssssss crackle spit”
“Pardon”
“Ah that’s better, look it’s your Zoid he stole, any idea where he’s going?” “I guess Choco will have stopped responding by now, and will be sulking in an alley somewhere” “Well if you want to see your Zoid in one piece, we better find him before those guys do.” The Gorem’s left battle fist gestured at a Maccrutis that was lurching into life, its antenna twitching and its guncluster glowing an ominous red.
“Why oh why didn’t I Darth something sensible like a Genosaurer”, muttered the young man, simultaneously with “why didn’t I steal a Lightning Saix” from the mysterious Drack. The Gorem lurched quickly off down a side street, directed by the occasional left, or right from the Darth on the infantry platform, as he concentrated on sensing where his Zoid was. The Deathpion trotted behind like some sort of faithful, eight legged dog. Finally they rounded an alleyway corner, to see a frustrated Merdian, banging the bright yellow armour plate of the Zeeva0 and begging it to move. His look of horror quickly turned to one of relief as the deathpion scuttled around the corner.
“Nippy! You made it!” Ignoring the Gorem, he jumped from the Chocozoid and scrambled over to the low slung robotic scorpion, which cracked its hatch invitingly. “Come on you two, we better get out of here before the lynch mob shows up!”
“But. How do you hang a gilled man?” Asked DB, pausing midway in climbing onto his zoid in confusion.
The Gorem span towards the alleyway entrance, its red eye flashing urgently.
“Company?” asked DB.
The Gorem nodded, just in time for a large, chitinous form to fill the road. With an oath, the Deathpion skitterd towards the back of the alleyway, its crusher claws tearing aside the corrugated iron wall of the shanty house blocking him from the nearest route inland. The Zeeva0 and Gorem thundered along behind through he path of carnage, leaving the Maccrutius in their dust.
Heedless of property damage, the deathpion scuttled onwards, heading south with the frantic speed of the life endangered. Clang “Ohhh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii” Another Maccrutius, having anticipated this possibility, had parked its self in ambush. Its dozer claw had thumped down on top of the skinny scorpion, pinning it like the bug it was.
The Gorem shrugged resignedly, but the Darth in the Zeeva0 urged his steed forwards in a headlong run. A pile driving foot lock from the left foot halted it under the arm, and its right foot glowed bright red. With a violent WERK, the body snapped horizontal, DB hanging on for dear life as the right foot arch of the Ostrich zoid shot up perpendicular to the body, bicycle kicking a laser sabre through the arm of the Maccructius. The body of the ostrich Zoid swang back down into its normal orientation in a heartbeat, then the birdlike head twisted, seized the left front leg, and brought both feet up to kick.
Clang!
The front leg of the Maccrutius fell off. The Crawdad zoid moved it’s huge crushing arm to deal with the impertinent yellow bird, only to find it being held tightly by a pair of angry munky fists.
“Bad shrimp. No Plankton!” called out Bulimer as he demolished each leg down the Zoid’s left side in turn.
With one Maccrutius flopped onto it’s side, and the other still trying to pick it’s way though buildings without crushing them, the boys were able to make it over the range of hills that divided Norway Bufu from the rest of the wastelands unmolested.
Ahh the wastelands. Not quite uninhabitable desert, not anything like fertile land, instead a rough badlands of rubble, sparse vegetation and sparse settlements that stretched from the tropics to near the pole. With the sun lowering towards the horizon, the three zoids pulled up near a brackish waterhole.
The three pilots disembarked, and looked at each other. With a shrug, John and Bullimer pulled off their helmets, and with a more pointed shrug, the mysterious Drak left his on.
“Camp for the night?” asked the Darth.
He was answered by two nods.
The Drak pulled a bundle of gear out of the bottom of his Gorem, and Smith
dug some food out of his ‘pion’s sadle bags. The darth kicked some wood into
a pile, and touched it with his sabre to ignite a merry blaze
Dusk settled over the camp. John sat staring discontentedly at the fire from a safe enough distance to avoid drying out his skin, the Drak was off somewhere doing whatever it was he did alone, and Bullimer and Choco were... playing From the bundle of gear on the Zeeva0’s rear, he’d fished a boxy unit, the infamous playbox 2500, which had several wired running to the sholders of the mech, apparently kneeling down at it’s ease. With movements made with the familiarity of long practice, he dismounted the screen from the beast’s neck, placing it before the fire. The Zoid made and enquiring wark.
“Ok ok, I know I promised I’d play you first.”
“Wark”
“No way yellow boy. this time you’re going down.”
“Wark”
“No I don’t know what changed form the last 15 times I’ve said that, but
this time, you will meet your match”
15 minutes later, the drak came over to check the swearing. He noticed Darth bullimer, a controller clutched in one hand, staring at the Zeev0’s screen with an intensity rarely seen... and the Zeeva0 was staring at it too. “ARRGH thats IT!” screamed the frustrated darth. “What you playing?” the Drak’s voice was soft, unobtrusive... but it was enough to makethe young man turn.
“Choco Kart Race.”
The Drak’s helmet turnd to the screen, then tot he bright yellow roadskiper,t hen back.
“may I?”
The young man frustratidely tossed his controller to the drak. As much as a mostly featurelss helmet could express concentration, his did.
beep, beep beep
VROOM.
The Drak had the start, and before the disbelieving eyes of darth and Zoid alike, he quickly won the race “Wow. You musta been a racing Sinker driver in a previous life!”
The drak turned, his helmet set at an angle that could almost have been cocky.
“Mabye I was”
Roadtrippin!
The Shelflands 1/24 fic
09:30, (Date unspecified) North West Bumfluff.
Norway Bufu sweltered under the hot summer sun. A typical shelflands town, in an atypical ocean location, consisting of a scattering of corrugated iron huts surrounding some more permanent structures. A Filling station, a tackle n bait shop, and a thick walled, thin roofed ammo store were the only “permanent” structures, apart from the rows upon rows of hotels. Through the winter and spring months of Zi, the tropical desert location was popular with tourists. But as the summer temperature climbed to its mid 40’s tourists fled for more salubrious climes, abandoning Norway Bufu to its normal population, an oddball mix of fishermen and musicians. Out near the dockyard, the water rippled suspiciously in the midday sun. A bulbous white protrusion with an underslung black gun and a bright orange lens broke the surface, twisting this way and that. Finally, happy with its survey of peaceful obliviousness, the rest of the sinister looking scorpion zoid surfaced, water streaming off the white armour and grey crushing claws. It moved swiftly towards the beach, parking in the shadow of a beached Maccrutius with a fishing trawl system installed in palace of the normal AZ railcannons.
A Deathpion. Although allegedly it was the ancestor of the mighty Deathstinger, no one really believed it of this 12 meter long scorpion. Barely armed well enough to deal with an aggressive anti-Zoid infantry squad, with a cramped uncomfortable horizontal cockpit, the only good thing about the zoid was its sensor suite and low profile. In other words this was the perfect Zoid for someone who wanted to avoid detection. This particular variant was known as the “armoured” version, with a more modern sensor suite denoted by orange lenses, and losing much of its cooling systems in favour of a thin plate of armour across the previously exposed cockpit. Given the temperature, it would have been no surprise to any observer, if there were any stupid enough to be out in this heat, to see the cockpit crack open and the pilot come out gasping for air. He staggered peculiarly, sea water streaming off his body to sizzle on the pavement. Finally he let out a huge gasp, his first for a while, as if he’d just remembered how to breathe. which he had. A Merdian, a member of the species of human who had genetically manipulated themselves to live the bulk of their lives underwater. Years ago, their kind had attempted to conquer the coastlines of Zi. In more recent times they had lived peaceable enough lives, but the site of one in a costal town could still arouse suspicion... If there was anyone outside to observe him.
As oxygen started entering his body via lungs instead of gills, the blue colour of his skin faded, being replaced by a more normal looking pink. Rummaging around in the ‘pion’s small cargo compartment, he fished out a collared shirt that would cover his gills, and then headed towards the nearest pub.
On the south side of Norway Bufu, hills lead up in a series of ridges towards a sharp line of hills. On the tallest of these, stood a man and his Zoid. Neruohelmet held in one hand, he posed dramatically, his cape billowing in the wind and revealing the laser sword hanging from the belt of his black and red flight suit.
“I have travelled the four corners of the earth for this. From my home of Arcadia to this desolate hell hole, I have tracked what I seek, and now it lies within my grasp!”
A casual observer from another planet might have wondered who the man was talking to, but his accoutrements and trappings revealed him as a Darth, one of those rare people who shared a near mystical bond with their zoids, and who also indulged in inspired tinkering and customization. Obviously he was talking to his zoid, that stood next to him. Almost twice the hight of the man from Arcadia, it was a big yellow ostrich. Yellow. Metalic canary yellow. It was so shiny that it hurt to look at in the bright tropical sun. A roadskipper, or posibably a Zeeva0 judging by the green colour of the searchlight cover, that had been darthed by its companion. “Let us ride Choco! We must be at the shops at their opening!” “Wark” the Zoid muttered, seeming to agree as it knelt for its master to board.
A dust trail rose above the eastern road into town. Knuckling along in the “zoids only” section of dirt track came a single, hunched shape. Red light flickered fitfully from the singular eye of the black and white metal beast as it headed towards town, determinedly putting the Draken Empire further behind it with every step. Close observation would reveal fresh patches of paint, as if logos had been sandblasted from the Zoid. Close observation of the pilot was not possible, he was wearing a form fitting body suit in tan with white and grey highlights, and a helmet that concealed his face. The only clue to his identity was the baroque music, already ancient by the time mankind left homeworld, playing on his Zoid’s sound system. The yellow Zoid thundered to a halt in front of the Tackle and Bait shop. The helmeted pilot looked from a hand held data pad, to the sign, and back to the data pad.
“This is the place.”
“Wark”
“Why would it be in this place?”
“Wark”
“Realy? You think he sells them to the tourist trade then? You’re awfully clever for a Zeeva0, aren’t you choco?”
“Kewl!” added the ostrich Zoid, nodding it’s head emphatically. He noticed the “no helmets” sign on the door, sighed dramatically and removed his helmet. In the dead still air of town his hair hung in a greasy black mass behind him, and he blinked in the sun, his pasty white completion revealing that he didn’t get enough of it. Muttering to himself even more, he fished around in his flight suit, pulled out a pair of thick glasses, and slipped them on.
Looking somewhat less like a Darth now, and more like another sterotype, he walked into the bait shop.
The crusty old sailor looked him up and down, and dropped that old chestnut “We don’t get many of your type round here boy.” “Where is it old man?”
“Where is what boy?”
“The PlayBox 2500 games, old man. Don’t piss me about!” “Hold yer hosses boy. I pack all that up when the tourists leave. S in the box over there.”
The box was old and salt stained. It had “crap for gullible idiots” written on it.
“Whaz in there that an Arcadian would trek alla way out here?” The young man was already rummaging in the contents of the box, but he turned to look at the storeowner. Weatherbeaten skin, sunbleached eyes, hands scared from trawls, obviously a retired fisher. “You might understand at that. Ever chase the big one?” The fisherman nodded. Every fisherman knew what it was like to have a prize fish escape them, and the lust that could drive a perfectly ordinary guy into a fish crazed lunatic.
“I fish in a different sea. In a sea of mediocre releases, half finished betas released as final product, consumerist pap and sports simulations, I hunt the few playable gems, the greatest games of mine and previous generations. Recently one title has eluded me. The ultimate collector’s edition of the latest release of a franchise so ancient that it travelled with us from homeworld. When the local gamesluts fudged my preorder, I set off on a quest to find a copy. I have travelled from the mountains of Arcadia, all through the UZN hunting this game. Eventualy I broke into the distributor’s offices, hacked their computers, and stole the delivery recipts. Your shop as the furthest flung, the most remote, and the only one not to have put in a request for more stock. And here it is!” He exclaimed, flourishing a metal case only slightly corroded from the salt air.
“Final Metal Fantasy Solid XXVIXC by Circlesoft-Konamix!”
The young Darth laughed manically.
The old man looked on with an expression of disdain, until the young Darth tossed four times the discounted sticker price onto the counter, when it morphed into disbelief.
“This realy was yer big one wasn’t it?’
“Ayup.”
“Round here boy we have a tradition. When a man lands his big one, he tells the pub, and then his drinks are on the crowd. Most of the fishermen will already be there. “ The old man grinned hugely. “Nobody is gonna believe this. What a great fish story. What was your name again boy?”
“Bulimer. Darth Bullimer. You can call me DB.”
The party was in full swing by the time the sandblasted Gorem Knuckled to a halt in front of the bar.
Its rider, still clad in his pilot suit and helmet shimmed down a rope ladder, and sauntered in to be confronted with a strange sight indeed. A bunch of booze sodden, toughened sailors were cheering on in shocked disbelief as a lanky haired black suited Arcadian related a seemingly improbable tale. Even more bizzarely, a yellow painted Zeeva0 had its head stuck in through a window, and was kewling enthusiastically too. “So then”, the Arcadian said, “After they saw through my cunning plan of dressing up as the chairman’s personal assistant, Choco here reminded me of a certain fact.”
“Wa waz da?” asked a sailor type, far to gone with drink to bother with proper diction.
“Kewl!”
“Well he reminded me that a laser sabre makes for one hell of a lock pick. So I plugged mine into his charge socket, and simply sliced through the lock after hours. Musta tripped a silent alarm though cause after I’d finished checking the stocking listings, the computer room door wouldn’t open.” “Well dat wouldna beena problem would it? slurred the sailor. “Cut yer way out as easy as in?”
“You might think so, but the batteries for these things”, Said the arciadian, flourishing the laser sabre over his head, “They last about two minutes before they run flat. I had about 30 seconds left or one door’s worth. So instead I cut my way into the vents, and ninjaed out via the ducts!”
“Yall didn’t think to see if the door pushed instead of pulled?”
“No.. Oops.”
A silence filled the bar. The Zeeva0 snickered, which led to a general outbreak of laughter.
“Boy, thers one thin’ I learned listin to ya. You got smarts ‘n passion, but when it comes to life, you dumb as a bag fullo hammers.” “Yeah” Chipped in another. “Never go to sea!”
“Nuh uh.”
“Oh no fear of that guys. I spotted a whole bunch of interesting things travelling through the wastelands. So I’m a gonna explore them, n’ see what I can see.”
This was met by a general good natured muttering, as the crowd dispersed. Several of the younger members drifted over to one corner of the pub, and began assembling a drum kit.
The Drak drifted up to the bar, ordered by pointing at a beer spigot, and then started drinking it through a straw.
The Merdian slunk out of his shadowy corner and sat next to the young darth.
“So.. Um.. you know the wastelands right?”
“I’m going exploring there yes.” stated the Darth, not quite ready to reveal his utter ignorance.
“I need to head inland. Can I tag along with you?” “How? You cant climb on the back of Choco!” The yellow headed Zeeva0 warked an emphatic agreement.
“I have my own zoid.. a Deathpion. I just don’t want to travel alone.”
“I guess. Why?”
“Because.”
The pub was by this time ignoring the lads, instead concentrating on the
stage. The Drum kit proclaimed the band name, “Sith Maiden”
A couple of the geezers were talking animatedly.
“I hear that The singer of this band is young Bruce.”
“Who?”
“You know him, Eddie Dickon’s son.”
“Ahh Bruce. You shoulda said.”
“I did you drunk Git!”
Back at the bar, the man still in his helmet turned towards the two men talking “No really. Why?” he asked the Merdian, his voice was soft, muted, but with an edge of command to it still. Perhaps the voice of a military man who led by example, rather than shouting.
“Tell me why you wearing that helmet?”
If a helmet could be said to glare, this one did.
“I like it!”, said the kid. “Darth Bullimer at your service, Mr mysterious stranger from the Draken empire!”
“John Smith” Claimed the Meridnan, looking a little pale. “Truth be told, I can respect your secrets sir.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I shudder to think what these rural slobs would think if they discovered I was a Merdian.”
“You’re a Merdian? Exclaimed DB, his high pitched outburst audible over the murmurings of the crowd.
“Urmmm Ohshitshitshit” moaned John, as the crown turned as one, hatred in their eyes and scaling knives in their hands. He threw himself through the window on toe the back of the startled ostrich Zoid, throwing it into gear and belting towards the outskirts before it even had time to wark in protest.
“HE STOLE MY ZOID! HE MUST PAY!” screamed DB. “He’s a Merdian, he MUST DIE!” screamed the old sailors. The bar emptied in a hurry, with the irate Darth stomping over to the one lone Deathpion.
“Open you piece of *Watch your language!*, your master has done a runner with my Zeeva0”
“Chitter”
“No really, he has!”
“Chitter.
“Oh you meen he’s? Then?”
“Chitter!”
“Oh I see. And you’re here to?”
“Chitter!”
Bullimer calmed down, grinned evily, then slapped on his helmet. “You know what? I am going to take him up on his offer to travel with me. This will be way to good to miss.”
“CHITTER!”
The Gorem stomped up next to the deathpion. It made a gesture to the infantry fighting platform strapped to its ape like back, obviously indicating the Darth should hitch a ride.
“You gonna chase him?’ asked the kid.
The Gorem nodded.
“Cool!’
Hopping from gyro cap to hydraulics cowling, the now sinisterly helmeted man climbed up to the platform, grabbing the fighting straps in one hand and banging on the cockpit cover with the other.
The Gorem knuckled forward as Bullimer plugged his helmet into the zoid’s intercom system.
“Hssssss crackle spit”
“Pardon”
“Ah that’s better, look it’s your Zoid he stole, any idea where he’s going?” “I guess Choco will have stopped responding by now, and will be sulking in an alley somewhere” “Well if you want to see your Zoid in one piece, we better find him before those guys do.” The Gorem’s left battle fist gestured at a Maccrutis that was lurching into life, its antenna twitching and its guncluster glowing an ominous red.
“Why oh why didn’t I Darth something sensible like a Genosaurer”, muttered the young man, simultaneously with “why didn’t I steal a Lightning Saix” from the mysterious Drack. The Gorem lurched quickly off down a side street, directed by the occasional left, or right from the Darth on the infantry platform, as he concentrated on sensing where his Zoid was. The Deathpion trotted behind like some sort of faithful, eight legged dog. Finally they rounded an alleyway corner, to see a frustrated Merdian, banging the bright yellow armour plate of the Zeeva0 and begging it to move. His look of horror quickly turned to one of relief as the deathpion scuttled around the corner.
“Nippy! You made it!” Ignoring the Gorem, he jumped from the Chocozoid and scrambled over to the low slung robotic scorpion, which cracked its hatch invitingly. “Come on you two, we better get out of here before the lynch mob shows up!”
“But. How do you hang a gilled man?” Asked DB, pausing midway in climbing onto his zoid in confusion.
The Gorem span towards the alleyway entrance, its red eye flashing urgently.
“Company?” asked DB.
The Gorem nodded, just in time for a large, chitinous form to fill the road. With an oath, the Deathpion skitterd towards the back of the alleyway, its crusher claws tearing aside the corrugated iron wall of the shanty house blocking him from the nearest route inland. The Zeeva0 and Gorem thundered along behind through he path of carnage, leaving the Maccrutius in their dust.
Heedless of property damage, the deathpion scuttled onwards, heading south with the frantic speed of the life endangered. Clang “Ohhh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii” Another Maccrutius, having anticipated this possibility, had parked its self in ambush. Its dozer claw had thumped down on top of the skinny scorpion, pinning it like the bug it was.
The Gorem shrugged resignedly, but the Darth in the Zeeva0 urged his steed forwards in a headlong run. A pile driving foot lock from the left foot halted it under the arm, and its right foot glowed bright red. With a violent WERK, the body snapped horizontal, DB hanging on for dear life as the right foot arch of the Ostrich zoid shot up perpendicular to the body, bicycle kicking a laser sabre through the arm of the Maccructius. The body of the ostrich Zoid swang back down into its normal orientation in a heartbeat, then the birdlike head twisted, seized the left front leg, and brought both feet up to kick.
Clang!
The front leg of the Maccrutius fell off. The Crawdad zoid moved it’s huge crushing arm to deal with the impertinent yellow bird, only to find it being held tightly by a pair of angry munky fists.
“Bad shrimp. No Plankton!” called out Bulimer as he demolished each leg down the Zoid’s left side in turn.
With one Maccrutius flopped onto it’s side, and the other still trying to pick it’s way though buildings without crushing them, the boys were able to make it over the range of hills that divided Norway Bufu from the rest of the wastelands unmolested.
Ahh the wastelands. Not quite uninhabitable desert, not anything like fertile land, instead a rough badlands of rubble, sparse vegetation and sparse settlements that stretched from the tropics to near the pole. With the sun lowering towards the horizon, the three zoids pulled up near a brackish waterhole.
The three pilots disembarked, and looked at each other. With a shrug, John and Bullimer pulled off their helmets, and with a more pointed shrug, the mysterious Drak left his on.
“Camp for the night?” asked the Darth.
He was answered by two nods.
The Drak pulled a bundle of gear out of the bottom of his Gorem, and Smith
dug some food out of his ‘pion’s sadle bags. The darth kicked some wood into
a pile, and touched it with his sabre to ignite a merry blaze
Dusk settled over the camp. John sat staring discontentedly at the fire from a safe enough distance to avoid drying out his skin, the Drak was off somewhere doing whatever it was he did alone, and Bullimer and Choco were... playing From the bundle of gear on the Zeeva0’s rear, he’d fished a boxy unit, the infamous playbox 2500, which had several wired running to the sholders of the mech, apparently kneeling down at it’s ease. With movements made with the familiarity of long practice, he dismounted the screen from the beast’s neck, placing it before the fire. The Zoid made and enquiring wark.
“Ok ok, I know I promised I’d play you first.”
“Wark”
“No way yellow boy. this time you’re going down.”
“Wark”
“No I don’t know what changed form the last 15 times I’ve said that, but
this time, you will meet your match”
15 minutes later, the drak came over to check the swearing. He noticed Darth bullimer, a controller clutched in one hand, staring at the Zeev0’s screen with an intensity rarely seen... and the Zeeva0 was staring at it too. “ARRGH thats IT!” screamed the frustrated darth. “What you playing?” the Drak’s voice was soft, unobtrusive... but it was enough to makethe young man turn.
“Choco Kart Race.”
The Drak’s helmet turnd to the screen, then tot he bright yellow roadskiper,t hen back.
“may I?”
The young man frustratidely tossed his controller to the drak. As much as a mostly featurelss helmet could express concentration, his did.
beep, beep beep
VROOM.
The Drak had the start, and before the disbelieving eyes of darth and Zoid alike, he quickly won the race “Wow. You musta been a racing Sinker driver in a previous life!”
The drak turned, his helmet set at an angle that could almost have been cocky.
“Mabye I was”
