<strong>RUTH</strong><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body"> Esther laughs at that.  “I'm sure,” she says, and it's the last thing she says before Ruth's disappeared out of the room with the door shut behind her.  <br/><br/>In the infirmary, when Ruth's worrying about what to wear and more important, how to wear it, especially that scary gun of hers, John's there, kind of doting on Anise.  She's wonked right the fuck out, really done-for today, probably be pretty stoned for the rest of the night while the worst of it settles down and the pain isn't so fresh anymore.  Somewhere outside, there's an engine roaring out loud.  John's kind of like, “Just wear it, right?  A gun says, 'I'm not here to screw around,' but it doesn't say 'I'm here to pick a fight,' until you do.”  Is it true?  Lots of people in Gomorrah carry guns or weapons around with them.  It's an ugly world, and while Gomorrah is safe-ish, there's no real police or enforcement here but Esther, and really, nobody wants Esther to get involved in their problems.<br/><br/>Except maybe Ruth.<br/><br/>To provide an example, maybe, of that tendency to carry guns, someone with one pops right into the infirmary, no announcement or nothing, and she's a little disheveled, sweaty (just like everyone out here, though, at least the sun'll be setting sometime soon.)  She's wearing those biker gang colors, and yeah, she's got a gun on her hip, too – a meaty SMG, at that.  She looks from John, to Anise, to John, to Ruth, and she's like, “I need the doctor.”  She might not know which soul exactly is Ruth – maybe they haven't met before.  “I need the doctor now,”  she clarifies.<br/><br/><strong>Ruth</strong>, what's the deal?  A doctor's life is exciting, but this chick's not hurt, and you have some problems of your own to handle, right?  What do you do?</div></div><br/><strong>HAVEL</strong><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">Yankee's like, “Fuck, Captain,” and still breathing pretty heavy.  Finding his neck means getting a little touchy, and that means getting a load of the warm, hot mess all over Yankee's shoulder and back along the way.  Yeah, not sweat; more sticky, less slick.  <br/><br/>Yankee, he laughs a little bit, though, he's like, “Fuck, Captain, I think I'm down an arm.”  That's not good; it's not impossible, but man, it's hard to ride with one arm.  Not a good place for a Company man to be, but probably better than cooking out half-buried in the sun the way the Solar cultists do with their dead.<br/><br/>A little bit of reading by touch would reveal that it wasn't an unreasonable guess on Yankee's part; one of his shoulders is a mess of mangled flesh, and it's not cosmetic.  Whose damage, though?  Yankee wouldn't be dumb enough to step into the line of fire, right?<br/><br/>In the distance, there's the roar of bikes, that grumbling sound that carries through the air like a warning wherever the chopper and his gang go.  Noisy fuckers.<br/><br/>Once the stab starts to kick in, Yankee's breathing goes less ragged, more shallow.  Soon it's too quiet to hear at all over the bikes coming on.<br/><br/><strong>Havel</strong>, are those bikes coming up from Gomorrah or heading into town from the laager?  What do you do?</div></div><br/><strong>JACK</strong><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">”Ambrosea,” Madison repeats.  “Her little vials are dark temptresses, each of them drawing the souls of Gomorrah under the sway of the vortex that is... her.”  She shifts her parasol, keeping the sharp tip of it dug into the ground below, a point on which it pivots.  “And our home may run with deep with waters, but clean water feeds flowers just as well as weeds, doesn't it?”<br/><br/>But then she nods, and shifted the handle of the parasol again, the needle-point tip remaining stuck in place.  “And the sun priest is dead,” she agrees.  “Can you see it out there, beyond your mind?  That light has grown dark.  It is done.  But his zealots, what will they do?  I think they will find their way to Ambrosea, and that worries me.  I fear for the future of Gomorrah while she's here, and you are the killer, are you not?  I think we might be able to work together...  To protect Gomorrah, yes?”<br/><br/><strong>Jack</strong>, what do you do?  Also, take a look in the OOC thread, those questions about the Psychic Maelstrom are for you too!  Ruth and Havel don't deal in the Maelstrom much, but Jack is weird, right?</div></div><br/><strong>AMBROSEA</strong><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body"> “Less poisonous,” Cringe accuses, though it's playful.  “And tastes better.  Maybe you'll find out.”  Cringe's pants are a tight fit, at least there where they offer so little coverage, and she unflips a clasp to give Ambrosea's hand more space; hidden under her clothes, Ambrosea's fingers find the hot, slick mess of the market-lady's excitement – something building, maybe, for some time, maybe since Ambrosea and her underdressed clan had invaded her home.<br/><br/>So that's how that goes: Ambrosea and Cringe spend some time rolling around in the cold, twisting and grinding and playing against each other while the stinging sour drug makes its way, slowly but surely, from their lips into their blood.  <br/><br/>It's hard to be sure just how long they're at it, but when they calm down and relax, the record's spinning but the tone arm's up, the music's done.<br/><br/><strong>Ambrosea</strong>, how'd that go?  You got plans for the future?  Cringe is kind of a selfish lover, did it bother you?  What do you do?</div></div>