Post by Azerate on Sept 21, 2010 17:21:48 GMT
Harrison Harper
Harrison had been resting in the public dorms these past few days and had officially lost his fucking mind among the people. It seemed that not only had he literally crashed out for a few days, it seems the Haven citizens had dragged him and his weapons to a hut close to the gate. They assumed if he was dying, he better be close to the gate to be devoured first.
Okay, so that probably wasn't true. He probably just still smelt awful and he didn't blame anyone in a 20 foot radius who didn't wanna come much closer.
He noticed that his sword was hanging up on a hook on the wall, and his shield was standing guard at the foot of his bed. His boots, which had holes and worn down leather were hiding underneath his bed. The utility belt was also uncharacteristically missing, although with a little bit of searching they were also under his bed. Lifting the covers, he was glad to still have his pants and holey socks on. His shirt had been rinsed out and buttoned carefully back on his chest, which begged the question, who had been so fortunate and brave enough to undress him and discover the tattoos on his unconscious body. He wondered to himself if he was considered dangerous, because it seemed certainly plausible. The Yakuza had tattooed minions and the normal Japanese society tended to stay away from them, knowing they were marked criminals. No doubt, some of the Wastelander gangs had criminal tattoos, but he had a fucking pirate ship on his ribs, brightly colored animals from neck to wrist and lyrics to love songs on his chest. These were done by artists and not men with ink and needles out in the desert, and there was already a big difference between those cavemen and him. These tattoos were his mark of the last life he lived, not his scarlet letter.
He whipped the one holey blanket off of his body and walked around his little hut, which was barely nicer than most of his lodgings these days. The interior was made of brick while the outside had been riveted with metal plating. It was mostly secure, except for of course, the two foot tall hole in the back corner of his hut.
He wondered how something like that managed to happen. Granted the hole was guarded by a piece of chainlink, but he wanted to brick it in. It was no matter, and he stood barefoot on his bare dirt floor. A table, probably four feet long, stood next to his bed, and he pushed it to the wall nearby with the hooks. His bed was directly in the middle of the whole house and Harrison was not pleased, moving his bed all the way to the far wall. His shield fell with a clatter and he left it, just moving his shoes and belt to the new spot.
He opened his door, which was surprisingly heavy and deceptively metal, despite it's wood finish. Poking his head outside didn't do much good. From left to right, he saw the gate, the houses across from him, the dirt thoroughfare with recent activity and a little bit of the interior to Haven.
He was in no mood to exactly join the rest, so he went back into his house, leaving the door open to catch some sort of breeze. Harrison supposed that with the nice two foot tall gap in the corner of his room and the door open, he would create a cooling cross breeze.
He flopped back on his bed and discovered that there was no flopping to be had on the hardest mattress man had ever created; He howled and slammed the mattress with his fist, hearing a slight noise as probably sand, tall grass or whatever filled his mattress.
Reaching underneath the mattress from hell he retrieved his belt and rummaged around in the pockets for a minute. He produced a half-done roll of cashier's receipt tape, blank on both sides and a nearly dead pencil, which he had found and been sharpening with his knife. He placed the top of the paper at the top of his thigh for a flat-ish writing surface, his brain turning cogs as he thought.
He simply began writing. All of the things Haven lacked in comparison to his tiny two-man ranch, all of the things he would need in the process to build and the estimated amount of manpower needed. A water source they maintained themselves was the first on his list, and he drew a small water tower supported by wood posts. He drew little filters, round tanks, water bottles and cisterns. The next on his list was food, and after that was hunting, and directly from that was making soap. From there he wrote his plans on building the forge to make weapons, finding every tool available in a three mile radius, better hunting techniques, preserving animal skins and even combining simple elements to make gunpowder.
He looked out his door again, watching a door swing in the wind. He absently wrote "Gomer Pyle" at the top of one column, tiny writing cramped in the margins, writing down every job he assumed would need to be done to ensure everyone got a daily benefit. After all,
He must have been writing for an hour before he dozed off again, slumped against the wall with the pencil in his hand and paper unraveled around him. Most of his list was an unintelligible chickenscratch, important ideas compressed in three in a half inch sentences. What really resonated in him were the images of each task completed and working in harmony, with an ample work force behind it.
It was a nice dream. The soil was dark, water was abundant, and animals bleated and snorted in stables. Harrison rolled over onto his side and stuck himself with his dull pencil.
He woke up from the slight pain, straightening up on his buckwheat mattress and pushing his hair backwards. He picked up his list again and studied it. He wondered how this would look, his mastermind plan to put the colony back on track. It sounded like something Mao would make do. Walk in, establish a new order and basically take over. Sure, it sounds fine on paper and even in the first few weeks everything is sweet, but it's only a matter of time before it all explodes.
That thought was so hideous, Harrison shuddered. He couldn't imagine he would inspire anything short of angry ignorance and ambivalence, and he didn't want absolute power anyway. Just clean water and a bar of soap. A silhouette appeared against his door and he was interested in the form, looking sharply to the door.
Human, whatever. He had a makeshift crossbow and a pair of goggles, and he looked like a strapping young lad. Must be a native. Harrison was greeted lethargically and he waved an apathetic hand back. "Hi. You must be fresh meat."
Harrison had been resting in the public dorms these past few days and had officially lost his fucking mind among the people. It seemed that not only had he literally crashed out for a few days, it seems the Haven citizens had dragged him and his weapons to a hut close to the gate. They assumed if he was dying, he better be close to the gate to be devoured first.
Okay, so that probably wasn't true. He probably just still smelt awful and he didn't blame anyone in a 20 foot radius who didn't wanna come much closer.
He noticed that his sword was hanging up on a hook on the wall, and his shield was standing guard at the foot of his bed. His boots, which had holes and worn down leather were hiding underneath his bed. The utility belt was also uncharacteristically missing, although with a little bit of searching they were also under his bed. Lifting the covers, he was glad to still have his pants and holey socks on. His shirt had been rinsed out and buttoned carefully back on his chest, which begged the question, who had been so fortunate and brave enough to undress him and discover the tattoos on his unconscious body. He wondered to himself if he was considered dangerous, because it seemed certainly plausible. The Yakuza had tattooed minions and the normal Japanese society tended to stay away from them, knowing they were marked criminals. No doubt, some of the Wastelander gangs had criminal tattoos, but he had a fucking pirate ship on his ribs, brightly colored animals from neck to wrist and lyrics to love songs on his chest. These were done by artists and not men with ink and needles out in the desert, and there was already a big difference between those cavemen and him. These tattoos were his mark of the last life he lived, not his scarlet letter.
He whipped the one holey blanket off of his body and walked around his little hut, which was barely nicer than most of his lodgings these days. The interior was made of brick while the outside had been riveted with metal plating. It was mostly secure, except for of course, the two foot tall hole in the back corner of his hut.
He wondered how something like that managed to happen. Granted the hole was guarded by a piece of chainlink, but he wanted to brick it in. It was no matter, and he stood barefoot on his bare dirt floor. A table, probably four feet long, stood next to his bed, and he pushed it to the wall nearby with the hooks. His bed was directly in the middle of the whole house and Harrison was not pleased, moving his bed all the way to the far wall. His shield fell with a clatter and he left it, just moving his shoes and belt to the new spot.
He opened his door, which was surprisingly heavy and deceptively metal, despite it's wood finish. Poking his head outside didn't do much good. From left to right, he saw the gate, the houses across from him, the dirt thoroughfare with recent activity and a little bit of the interior to Haven.
He was in no mood to exactly join the rest, so he went back into his house, leaving the door open to catch some sort of breeze. Harrison supposed that with the nice two foot tall gap in the corner of his room and the door open, he would create a cooling cross breeze.
He flopped back on his bed and discovered that there was no flopping to be had on the hardest mattress man had ever created; He howled and slammed the mattress with his fist, hearing a slight noise as probably sand, tall grass or whatever filled his mattress.
Reaching underneath the mattress from hell he retrieved his belt and rummaged around in the pockets for a minute. He produced a half-done roll of cashier's receipt tape, blank on both sides and a nearly dead pencil, which he had found and been sharpening with his knife. He placed the top of the paper at the top of his thigh for a flat-ish writing surface, his brain turning cogs as he thought.
He simply began writing. All of the things Haven lacked in comparison to his tiny two-man ranch, all of the things he would need in the process to build and the estimated amount of manpower needed. A water source they maintained themselves was the first on his list, and he drew a small water tower supported by wood posts. He drew little filters, round tanks, water bottles and cisterns. The next on his list was food, and after that was hunting, and directly from that was making soap. From there he wrote his plans on building the forge to make weapons, finding every tool available in a three mile radius, better hunting techniques, preserving animal skins and even combining simple elements to make gunpowder.
He looked out his door again, watching a door swing in the wind. He absently wrote "Gomer Pyle" at the top of one column, tiny writing cramped in the margins, writing down every job he assumed would need to be done to ensure everyone got a daily benefit. After all,
He must have been writing for an hour before he dozed off again, slumped against the wall with the pencil in his hand and paper unraveled around him. Most of his list was an unintelligible chickenscratch, important ideas compressed in three in a half inch sentences. What really resonated in him were the images of each task completed and working in harmony, with an ample work force behind it.
It was a nice dream. The soil was dark, water was abundant, and animals bleated and snorted in stables. Harrison rolled over onto his side and stuck himself with his dull pencil.
He woke up from the slight pain, straightening up on his buckwheat mattress and pushing his hair backwards. He picked up his list again and studied it. He wondered how this would look, his mastermind plan to put the colony back on track. It sounded like something Mao would make do. Walk in, establish a new order and basically take over. Sure, it sounds fine on paper and even in the first few weeks everything is sweet, but it's only a matter of time before it all explodes.
That thought was so hideous, Harrison shuddered. He couldn't imagine he would inspire anything short of angry ignorance and ambivalence, and he didn't want absolute power anyway. Just clean water and a bar of soap. A silhouette appeared against his door and he was interested in the form, looking sharply to the door.
Human, whatever. He had a makeshift crossbow and a pair of goggles, and he looked like a strapping young lad. Must be a native. Harrison was greeted lethargically and he waved an apathetic hand back. "Hi. You must be fresh meat."
