Tuesday Morning, Connor Safehouse, VA
It had been a long weekend.
It had all started with a nice, Friday night drive, out to the boonies. Just for fun. First ride out on the bike in a while, wind in his... uh... helmet, no insects splocking into the visor, just him and the bike. And Sparky inside the coat, peeking up at the throat zipper. And doing a very long happydance at the speed. Just him, and the bike, and the wind.
And an overbearing need to pee. Stupid MegaSquishies during work.
John had parked the bike in a bit of a valley and made sure no one was coming in either direction before watering a tree just over the ridge, not even taking his helmet off.
Business finished, he ambled back down to the bike...
...only to find a horde of people in funny dress swarming the bike, calling it a "metal horse" and an "iron dragon." At least, that's what it sounded like through the accents.
"Oh. CRAP." John was eloquent in such situations.
"There his is! The demon!" someone shouted, and they started charging John. Who was very glad he was wearing his leathers, and his tool-lined jacket. This was so not good.
The first was skinny, almost underfed, large robes almost tripping him as he charged up the hill, axe held overhead as he uttered a battlecharge.
He was easy to sweep pass, sidestepping the axe and swatting the shaft across the bearer's midline, causing him to overcompensate and stumble.
The next held a fat sword, held with both hands, face blotchy and red, streaked with rage. He was slow in the downstroke and John barrelled into him, catching him in the midsection with a forearm, ducking the sword out of reflex. The next was a woman, with an overdeveloped sense of breastplate and a pair of axes who got tangled up in Mr. SwordSwinger; John nabbed an axe with one hand and used it to block another sword, headbutting the owner right on his metal conical helmet with his own very not-designed-for-headbutting helmet, thankful the visor was down so that wouldn't crack as welll; the second swordswinger went down in a very painful pile of metal armor as John whirled around to attack the person who had sprung up on his left, striking at the forte of the blade and knocking it loose from its owner's hand. A bag flew past his helmet.
Another whirl, and John jumped back, narrowly missing a cleaving blow from a polearm; he stepped on it, wrenching the shaft from the owner's hands and cracking the shaft from the sound of it; a knee to the midsection brought him down. Another swipe with the axe and another attacker went down. It was almost easy; he was able to use his momentum down the hill to scatter and cleave, the attackers either overestimating or underestimating, the blows barely received or ill-timed.
John overestimated, himself, and tripped, rolling down the hill, knocking into more people, before coming back up, grabbing a dagger in eyesight, still too far from the bike. No way he'd be able to take out the whole group and reach the bike in one piece, so he went for speed. Cripple, not kill. Arms. Legs. Here a wrist, there a hamstring, blocking, sidestepping, stepping inside the swing, using head, elbows, knees, fist, dagger, feet. Almost at the bike, the feel of stings and blows and Sparky barricaded in the special interior pocket as John fought for his life among some backwater medival half-ass army.
He hadn't even noticed a fucking portal.
He nearly had his bell rung from someone swinging a staff at him (seriously? Some sort of shephard's crook with a hardon?) before slicing at the shephard's fingers. He turned around, and most of the warriors were lying on the ground or standing too far to be an immediate threat.
The bike. Made it. Key. Fired up. Ready to go--"STOP!"
There stood a man in his way, arms outstretched, wearing partial armor, arm and chestplate hanging from straps...revealing a t-shirt with a skate shop logo?
And the guy next to him was swearing in very much modern English, peppered with a lot of the F-bombs. Distilled: "Dude, what the fuck did you just do?"
John looked around; those who were still standing were surrounding him warily, well out of striking distance. Others were holding their heads or limbs, or staring at their weapons. John looked down at the dagger he swiped...which was not made of metal. And, in fact, appeared to be made out of duct tape.
"Okay," John had said, voice muffled through the helmet. "What the goddamn hell is going on?"
---
It took John the better part of two days to realize that the group of LARPers were, in fact, not named after a suspension part.
---
John made profuse appologies, once he had realized that he had stumbled across a group of LARPers...or that they, in fact, had stumbled across his bike and John (over)reacted to a group of people trying to attack him. In his defence, most of the damage was to the boffers and swords and egos; the group had mistaken John for The Iron Dragon, who had texted several times to state that he was late to the party, would be arriving on a motorcycle, and clad all in black. And whose name was Steve. And was showing up as a challenge to stay undefeated. And, when he did arrive, was on a Fat Boy with a case of beer, ready for the party.
"I can't believe you did that."
"I said I was sorry. Reflex. People charge at me? I charge back."
"How'd you learn that stuff?"
"Fun childhood." John smirked. If people only knew.
"Seriously? That's like Army training."
"Some of it. A lot I just picked up here and there." Depending on who Mom found that month.
"I've been doing this for, what, three years now? Never seen anything like it. Can't wait for you and Steve and that fight--GODDAMMIT."
John sighed. "Here. Gimme." He held out his hand for the laptop.
"Can't pull a signal. I mean, it's there, but it's too faint. Must be the HAM tower."
"Got any Pringles?"
"Yeah, but... not much left. 'bout a handful."
"Perfect," John said. "Go find me someone's tripod, a bolt that'll fit, and hand me that goddamn antenna," he said. The Cantenna was ready by the time Lord Highmark returned. "Here," John said, rigging it up. "Dial this in, and it should work. Next time? Bring better shit."
"Bring better shit, bring better shit. You're the one who--I can't believe you pack a kilt with you."
"Never know when you'll need it. Great blanket, sleeping bag, picnic spread, appropriate wedding attire. It slices, it dices. I like the mods on the case."
"Not everyone does. Steampunk isn't really the scene here."
"I like it. Everything looks better in bronze. And brass. Love the verdigris."
"What?"
"The verdigris. How'd you age it like that?"
"What, the rust?"
"The tarnish, yeah."
"Rust. Rusty. I dub thee Sir Rusty Metalhorse."
"Jackass. Dammit, Bob, get that goddamn plastic flagon off my head or I'll thwack you with a pool noodle."
"Best two out of three?" John was panting. His jacket was not helping in this heat. Neither was the fact that he was using a sword that, as of about three hours ago, had belonged to one of the better swordfighters and weaponsmithers at the place, won fair and square in combat, and was entirely unfamiliar.
Steve, the Iron Dragon, shrugged and smiled. "Sure. Just means that I get Ronnie's sword in another ten minutes instead of now."
John just grinned. "You think I'll make it that easy?"
---
"No, it's not that I think you're ugly. It's just I have a girlfriend who will not leave enough of me behind to fill a baggie. Sorry."
---
"I dub thee Rusty Metalhorse." The attendants cheered.
"Goddammit, Bob," John muttered.
"You rather I used Verdigris?" Steve muttered back, in his ceremonial robes.
[NFB. Ping post in Alumni to follow. All speeling errors are intentional. Really.]
It had all started with a nice, Friday night drive, out to the boonies. Just for fun. First ride out on the bike in a while, wind in his... uh... helmet, no insects splocking into the visor, just him and the bike. And Sparky inside the coat, peeking up at the throat zipper. And doing a very long happydance at the speed. Just him, and the bike, and the wind.
And an overbearing need to pee. Stupid MegaSquishies during work.
John had parked the bike in a bit of a valley and made sure no one was coming in either direction before watering a tree just over the ridge, not even taking his helmet off.
Business finished, he ambled back down to the bike...
...only to find a horde of people in funny dress swarming the bike, calling it a "metal horse" and an "iron dragon." At least, that's what it sounded like through the accents.
"Oh. CRAP." John was eloquent in such situations.
"There his is! The demon!" someone shouted, and they started charging John. Who was very glad he was wearing his leathers, and his tool-lined jacket. This was so not good.
The first was skinny, almost underfed, large robes almost tripping him as he charged up the hill, axe held overhead as he uttered a battlecharge.
He was easy to sweep pass, sidestepping the axe and swatting the shaft across the bearer's midline, causing him to overcompensate and stumble.
The next held a fat sword, held with both hands, face blotchy and red, streaked with rage. He was slow in the downstroke and John barrelled into him, catching him in the midsection with a forearm, ducking the sword out of reflex. The next was a woman, with an overdeveloped sense of breastplate and a pair of axes who got tangled up in Mr. SwordSwinger; John nabbed an axe with one hand and used it to block another sword, headbutting the owner right on his metal conical helmet with his own very not-designed-for-headbutting helmet, thankful the visor was down so that wouldn't crack as welll; the second swordswinger went down in a very painful pile of metal armor as John whirled around to attack the person who had sprung up on his left, striking at the forte of the blade and knocking it loose from its owner's hand. A bag flew past his helmet.
Another whirl, and John jumped back, narrowly missing a cleaving blow from a polearm; he stepped on it, wrenching the shaft from the owner's hands and cracking the shaft from the sound of it; a knee to the midsection brought him down. Another swipe with the axe and another attacker went down. It was almost easy; he was able to use his momentum down the hill to scatter and cleave, the attackers either overestimating or underestimating, the blows barely received or ill-timed.
John overestimated, himself, and tripped, rolling down the hill, knocking into more people, before coming back up, grabbing a dagger in eyesight, still too far from the bike. No way he'd be able to take out the whole group and reach the bike in one piece, so he went for speed. Cripple, not kill. Arms. Legs. Here a wrist, there a hamstring, blocking, sidestepping, stepping inside the swing, using head, elbows, knees, fist, dagger, feet. Almost at the bike, the feel of stings and blows and Sparky barricaded in the special interior pocket as John fought for his life among some backwater medival half-ass army.
He hadn't even noticed a fucking portal.
He nearly had his bell rung from someone swinging a staff at him (seriously? Some sort of shephard's crook with a hardon?) before slicing at the shephard's fingers. He turned around, and most of the warriors were lying on the ground or standing too far to be an immediate threat.
The bike. Made it. Key. Fired up. Ready to go--"STOP!"
There stood a man in his way, arms outstretched, wearing partial armor, arm and chestplate hanging from straps...revealing a t-shirt with a skate shop logo?
And the guy next to him was swearing in very much modern English, peppered with a lot of the F-bombs. Distilled: "Dude, what the fuck did you just do?"
John looked around; those who were still standing were surrounding him warily, well out of striking distance. Others were holding their heads or limbs, or staring at their weapons. John looked down at the dagger he swiped...which was not made of metal. And, in fact, appeared to be made out of duct tape.
"Okay," John had said, voice muffled through the helmet. "What the goddamn hell is going on?"
---
It took John the better part of two days to realize that the group of LARPers were, in fact, not named after a suspension part.
---
John made profuse appologies, once he had realized that he had stumbled across a group of LARPers...or that they, in fact, had stumbled across his bike and John (over)reacted to a group of people trying to attack him. In his defence, most of the damage was to the boffers and swords and egos; the group had mistaken John for The Iron Dragon, who had texted several times to state that he was late to the party, would be arriving on a motorcycle, and clad all in black. And whose name was Steve. And was showing up as a challenge to stay undefeated. And, when he did arrive, was on a Fat Boy with a case of beer, ready for the party.
"I can't believe you did that."
"I said I was sorry. Reflex. People charge at me? I charge back."
"How'd you learn that stuff?"
"Fun childhood." John smirked. If people only knew.
"Seriously? That's like Army training."
"Some of it. A lot I just picked up here and there." Depending on who Mom found that month.
"I've been doing this for, what, three years now? Never seen anything like it. Can't wait for you and Steve and that fight--GODDAMMIT."
John sighed. "Here. Gimme." He held out his hand for the laptop.
"Can't pull a signal. I mean, it's there, but it's too faint. Must be the HAM tower."
"Got any Pringles?"
"Yeah, but... not much left. 'bout a handful."
"Perfect," John said. "Go find me someone's tripod, a bolt that'll fit, and hand me that goddamn antenna," he said. The Cantenna was ready by the time Lord Highmark returned. "Here," John said, rigging it up. "Dial this in, and it should work. Next time? Bring better shit."
"Bring better shit, bring better shit. You're the one who--I can't believe you pack a kilt with you."
"Never know when you'll need it. Great blanket, sleeping bag, picnic spread, appropriate wedding attire. It slices, it dices. I like the mods on the case."
"Not everyone does. Steampunk isn't really the scene here."
"I like it. Everything looks better in bronze. And brass. Love the verdigris."
"What?"
"The verdigris. How'd you age it like that?"
"What, the rust?"
"The tarnish, yeah."
"Rust. Rusty. I dub thee Sir Rusty Metalhorse."
"Jackass. Dammit, Bob, get that goddamn plastic flagon off my head or I'll thwack you with a pool noodle."
"Best two out of three?" John was panting. His jacket was not helping in this heat. Neither was the fact that he was using a sword that, as of about three hours ago, had belonged to one of the better swordfighters and weaponsmithers at the place, won fair and square in combat, and was entirely unfamiliar.
Steve, the Iron Dragon, shrugged and smiled. "Sure. Just means that I get Ronnie's sword in another ten minutes instead of now."
John just grinned. "You think I'll make it that easy?"
---
"No, it's not that I think you're ugly. It's just I have a girlfriend who will not leave enough of me behind to fill a baggie. Sorry."
---
"I dub thee Rusty Metalhorse." The attendants cheered.
"Goddammit, Bob," John muttered.
"You rather I used Verdigris?" Steve muttered back, in his ceremonial robes.
[NFB. Ping post in Alumni to follow. All speeling errors are intentional. Really.]