Inbound
When the call came, everyone sort of quietly looked around the room at each other, waiting to see if anyone was going to step up to go get the Old Man. When that didn't work, we agreed to an elimination round of rock-scissors-paper, but everyone chose scissors, then everyone chose paper, then everyone but me chose me. Assholes. I'd complain about the mob mentality of democracy, but honestly, as the new kid, it's not like there is any other sort of governance where I'd have fared better in the process.
Oldbies gonna screw young comers every time, given the chance.
So I headed out to the garage and checked out the giant, dark, ungainly limo from the parking bank. Nice vehicle to be a passenger in, I'm sure, not that I've ever been, but man is it ever a nightmare to drive. Like herding a giant slug. Like gear-shifting a tar pit. Like one of those tilting-labyrinth marble games, only the marble weighs four tons and you're inside it. On the bright side, it's definitely armored well enough for the drive up the peninsula, so I wasn't in all that much danger.
At least, not from stuff outside the limo.
There's always a pack of scavs right outside the garage. They get all up around and above the exit ramp when they hear the gears engage. Can't get too close, of course, since the ramp itself is bathed with fire and sonics just before any vehicle emerges, but they figure out the safe approach distance to a meter or less. Of course, periodically we adjust the angles on a few projectors so that those angles of crossfire change, but they accept the risk. Their lives are so shitty, the risk is no skin off their leprous noses.
Not that they're actually leprous, of course, I mean, I don't actually know, and I'm not trying to be bigoted here.
Anyway, they're out there ready to jump whoever emerges, and they drop a first round of small arms on me out of sheer instinct, before they get a good look or can hear the limo's turbine over the projectors. Then they ceasefire 'cause they know as well as I do that not even their rockets, whatever kit-built terror shitbombs they've managed to piece together, are going to crack my shell. Not tonight, boys, I'm taking the luxury turtle up the King's Highway to get the Old Man. We'll be back in two hours.
Y'all probably better start looking for rather more distant cover right now.
Out on the road, it's all clear. Bright moon, good visibility, so I make good speed (relatively) and good time. Very little incoming scan the whole way, so most likely word is already out on the peninsula and folks are buttoning up for the night. My own scanner tells me the Old Man's flight is right on time; in fact, as I make my way off the highway into the old maze of over- and under-ramps by the airport, I can see the twinkling wingtip lights of his inbound plane, all its vanes thrown wide to glide.
I wonder, not for the first time, who else still uses the airport; I know the Old Man isn't the only one out there who can maintain a plane.
I pull up to the usual stretch of curb and wait. The flight crew, who double as bodyguards and, you know, other types of help, arrive first, bringing some luggage and securing the area. Not that there's anyone around; the place always empties of scavs when someone rolls into town by air. They may not be bright, as a rule, but they got a streak of self-preservation that would reach across the Bay. They don't want to be around any more than we want them to be around, in these moments of transfer.
Works out for everyone.
After the crew has everything secured, the Old Man finally makes his way out. I've never met him before, in person, and I'm struck by how much smaller and older and slower he seems even than the pictures and vid. But then I recall how much of that is an illusion, a careful deceit covering the strength and speed and, of course, immortal patience it contains. He doesn't actually need bodyguards when he's visiting us here; nothing on the peninsula could take him and it's been years since anyone tried.
At night, I mean; daytime is a different story, of course.
He looks me after as I open the door for him. "You're new," is the first thing he says. I nod. "You know what the next thing you have to do is?" he inquires. Again, I nod, take off my left glove, and hold the hand out to him. Casually, he takes a short folding razor from an invisible pocket in his coat, picks a finger, draws an incision across it efficiently. He pinches a welling of my blood into one hefty drop, which he dabs up with his thumb and brings to his mouth. Whatever he tastes is apparently acceptable.
"Do you know the Peninsula well?" he asks.
"Lived here my whole life, sir," I assure him. "Would you like the quick route home, or something more scenic?"
He smiles and I see the fangs for the first time. "The flight has left me hungry. I want to do a bit of hunting. Take me wherever the locals are hiding."
------
For consideration: huh, I guess this turned out to be a post-apocalyptic vampire bit
Oldbies gonna screw young comers every time, given the chance.
So I headed out to the garage and checked out the giant, dark, ungainly limo from the parking bank. Nice vehicle to be a passenger in, I'm sure, not that I've ever been, but man is it ever a nightmare to drive. Like herding a giant slug. Like gear-shifting a tar pit. Like one of those tilting-labyrinth marble games, only the marble weighs four tons and you're inside it. On the bright side, it's definitely armored well enough for the drive up the peninsula, so I wasn't in all that much danger.
At least, not from stuff outside the limo.
There's always a pack of scavs right outside the garage. They get all up around and above the exit ramp when they hear the gears engage. Can't get too close, of course, since the ramp itself is bathed with fire and sonics just before any vehicle emerges, but they figure out the safe approach distance to a meter or less. Of course, periodically we adjust the angles on a few projectors so that those angles of crossfire change, but they accept the risk. Their lives are so shitty, the risk is no skin off their leprous noses.
Not that they're actually leprous, of course, I mean, I don't actually know, and I'm not trying to be bigoted here.
Anyway, they're out there ready to jump whoever emerges, and they drop a first round of small arms on me out of sheer instinct, before they get a good look or can hear the limo's turbine over the projectors. Then they ceasefire 'cause they know as well as I do that not even their rockets, whatever kit-built terror shitbombs they've managed to piece together, are going to crack my shell. Not tonight, boys, I'm taking the luxury turtle up the King's Highway to get the Old Man. We'll be back in two hours.
Y'all probably better start looking for rather more distant cover right now.
Out on the road, it's all clear. Bright moon, good visibility, so I make good speed (relatively) and good time. Very little incoming scan the whole way, so most likely word is already out on the peninsula and folks are buttoning up for the night. My own scanner tells me the Old Man's flight is right on time; in fact, as I make my way off the highway into the old maze of over- and under-ramps by the airport, I can see the twinkling wingtip lights of his inbound plane, all its vanes thrown wide to glide.
I wonder, not for the first time, who else still uses the airport; I know the Old Man isn't the only one out there who can maintain a plane.
I pull up to the usual stretch of curb and wait. The flight crew, who double as bodyguards and, you know, other types of help, arrive first, bringing some luggage and securing the area. Not that there's anyone around; the place always empties of scavs when someone rolls into town by air. They may not be bright, as a rule, but they got a streak of self-preservation that would reach across the Bay. They don't want to be around any more than we want them to be around, in these moments of transfer.
Works out for everyone.
After the crew has everything secured, the Old Man finally makes his way out. I've never met him before, in person, and I'm struck by how much smaller and older and slower he seems even than the pictures and vid. But then I recall how much of that is an illusion, a careful deceit covering the strength and speed and, of course, immortal patience it contains. He doesn't actually need bodyguards when he's visiting us here; nothing on the peninsula could take him and it's been years since anyone tried.
At night, I mean; daytime is a different story, of course.
He looks me after as I open the door for him. "You're new," is the first thing he says. I nod. "You know what the next thing you have to do is?" he inquires. Again, I nod, take off my left glove, and hold the hand out to him. Casually, he takes a short folding razor from an invisible pocket in his coat, picks a finger, draws an incision across it efficiently. He pinches a welling of my blood into one hefty drop, which he dabs up with his thumb and brings to his mouth. Whatever he tastes is apparently acceptable.
"Do you know the Peninsula well?" he asks.
"Lived here my whole life, sir," I assure him. "Would you like the quick route home, or something more scenic?"
He smiles and I see the fangs for the first time. "The flight has left me hungry. I want to do a bit of hunting. Take me wherever the locals are hiding."
------
For consideration: huh, I guess this turned out to be a post-apocalyptic vampire bit