Abandoned Outskirts, Free City of Foundry
Thursday, February 23, 2051
1:05 PM

The Lazarus team awakens to the acrid smell of smoke mixed with blood and hydraulic fluid, their timepieces showing that they only lost consciousness for a few brief moments. The Amur is lying upside down under an overpass, the result of an explosion in the undercarriage flipping the vehicle head-over-heels.

Mac sits upside-down against the wall of the overpass, his entire being screaming out in pain from the sudden stop after the undesired ejection from the speeding vehicle. Wormwood is still in the passenger’s seat up front, with Pitbull hanging out the driver’s side window, his arm wrapped around his crash web. Pacoy and Eris are in the back, the robot girl Seranya in between them, powered off with her remaining hand locked around her stump of an arm.

The sound of a combustion engine rings in their ears; it’s got to be only a minute or two away, and approaching fast.

“Oh Klono’s Balls!” Wormwood groans as he checks himself for major injuries and tries to struggle out of his crash-web. “Guys….we gotta move!” Also groaning softly, Pacoy quickly checks himself for major injuries before making his way to Eris. Mac moans in pain, blinking his eyes through the red liquid streaming over his eyes, trying to clear them. “…did anyone catch the name of that exploding Amur…?” He slowly collapses to the side and eventually rights himself, dragging his broken and bleeding body back towards the group to assist in getting everyone out of the vehicle. Pitbull pushes himself up and out with a drawn out grunt and grabs his Reaper and M16X from the wreck. “Worm, we can’t out-run them. We were pretty toe-to-toe with them in a vehicle. Now we’re not. Now we can’t.” Pitbull growls as he checks his Reaper.

“Uhhggg…You OK Pits? Pac?…Where the hell is Mac?” Wormwood slices his web cradle with his extendable mono-molecular fingerblades and starts to climb out. “I’m not going without a fight!” Mac winces as he draws near. “We need to get away from the Amur now – it’s on fire, and if it cooks off, that explosion will do us in for sure. Run or stay, we can’t do it here.” He limps over to the trailer in an attempt to get right it and get the motorbikes out.

Abandoned Outskirts, Free City of Foundry
Thursday, February 23, 2051
12:45 AM

The Amur flies through the war-torn, bombed-out suburb at nearly seventy miles per hour, the old, unmaintained road’s potholes only the least of the Lazarus team’s worries. Seranya is holding up her broken arm, staring down at the wrecked mess of a mechanical appendage and shivering as if in shock. Eris, leaning forwards towards the front seats, keeps yelling directions. “Move it, move it! We’ve got to get the fuck out of here!”

The bots above continue their aerial battle, streams of tracers battling with the cold gray sky for attention. The rapid-fire gunshots of their machineguns can barely be heard through the racket down at the surface, but Pacoy suddenly gives a shout when something happens – and ahead of the speeding Amur, a bot falls to the ground, the plasma discharge of its energy cells marking where it struck the Earth. The sky suddenly goes quiet as the remaining bots turn towards the fleeing Lazarus Team, their barrels turned upon the Amur, glinting in the light of the dust-hidden sun.

The noise at ground level goes quiet for a moment, just long enough for Wormwood to notice a noise coming up from beneath him – a simple, electronic ‘beeeep’ from right on the Amur’s undercarriage. He barely has time to identify the sound, much less react, before the Lazarus team’s world suddenly spins upside down as the loudest sound any of them can remember – fighting with the BLEVE back at the hospital for dominance – suddenly blasts their ears and gravity itself decides to take a leave of absence. The Amur flips end-over-end as the explosive sends the heavy SUV skyward, and the daylight suddenly goes black.

Free City of Rising
Wednesday, February 22, 2051
7:45 PM

It’s been forty-five minutes since the stampede began and Rising was overrun with Gnox. The Lazarus group’s rented Amur remains wedged into an alleyway, its oversized trailer sticking out into the open air, unprotected but for the vigilant defenders standing upon its roof. Their dedication to their craft is open for all to see – for a zone ten meters in every direction, the area around the Amur is a killing field. Over one hundred bullets fired, most of them hits; if the weapons of 2050 still had cases the Amur would be swimming in brass. On the other side of the trailer, numerous Gnox are piled up deep in the alley, cut in half by strategically placed monowire traps; only three yards from the Amur’s front bumper lie a half-dozen Gnox carcasses, almost completely filling the alley’s small space.

It has been three minutes since the last plaintive cries of ‘moo’ could be heard, and even longer since a Gnox could be seen. The dust storm has already passed outside, and the remaining dust and wind within the underground city has been slowly coming to a standstill. Things aren’t exactly returning to normal, but at least they’ve become a little more quiet.

Pitbull looks around at the slaughter, content with the damage done, but a look of worry is crossing his face. The audible crack of his Reaper all that is heard from him as it racks a round into it’s chamber. Wormwood listens with augmented hearing for a second or two, then slumps onto the roof of the Amur, exhausted. “It’s over, they’ve gone.” He pauses for a second as his inbuilt computerized familiar does a body count, “And I’ve still got one more to my tally than Pits does!” Pacoy opens his jacket and activates one of the tiny little Pinbots to use as an extra eye on the scene, making sure the danger is over. Mac winces, finishing digging the remaining shells from his shotgun bag and loading them in. Two remaining – a lonely number, not even enough for a happy cake. “That’s us tied up too, Wormwood. But how are we going to back this box out of here without hitting one of those brutes?”

Free City of Rising
Wednesday, February 22, 2051
6:45 PM

The diner is dark and nearly silent. Mac’s half-eaten food lies untouched and unseen as everyone faces the big floor-to-ceiling windows, showing flashes of Gnox and storm as the dust-charged lightning cracks through the air. The only noise is the low rumbling of the Gnox, mixed with the sudden cracks of thunder – and something else almost lost in the general clamor. Pacoy and Wormwood are the only ones to notice it – a third low rumble, close by and almost directly below thumb, with an almost metallic tinge.

The latest flash of lightning shows the Gnox, stretched from the barrier to the horizon and easily numbering in the tens of thousands, moving past the deactivated barrier, agitated and scared. The big creatures are starting to move fast now, the lead few running with those in the rear struggling to catch up. The herd is moving randomly, but they’re sandwiched in by the storm on one side and the underground city on the other – and they’re clearly more afraid of the former than the latter.

Mac fumbles around in his jacket holster for a brief second before pulling out his flashlight and toggling it on. “Pitbull, you did order the steak – can I blame this one on you?” Mac’s grin is barely visible in the illumination from the flashlight. A stampede in the darkness – life serves up strange things in late night diners, but this one’s a first.

Pan-American Trail
5 Miles from the Free City of Rising
Wednesday, February 22, 2051
4:45 PM

The relatively short drive from the intersection to the outskirts of the Free City of Rising is nearly complete. The Lazarus Team, plus one damaged, but still functional, robotic girl is now within the Free Rising Militia’s designated Area of Influence, as a sign grandly erected next to the highway proudly states. So far, there has been no sign of actual human habitation, though several herds of various beasts, from old-time cattle to Gen-Nu pharmgoats and Gnox, have been spotted.

The mechanical girl sits still in her seat, her simulated breathing moving her chest up and down. For the past few dozen miles, Pacoy has been working on her neck, cheek, and mouth, fixing up her vocal synthesizer. Currently, his hand is deep within her mouth, making one final adjustment before he’s satisfied the job is finished.

Mac glances back at Pacoy. “Careful she doesn’t bite, bo. Hate to watch you fix yourself up with a robotic set of fingers.” He chuckles. Pacoy delves into Siri’s speech systems, simultaneously impressed by some of the cutting edge innovations and amused by other obsolete designs. “Don’t worry,” he says to Mac, “I brought spare parts!” Pitbull grunts. “Hope ya gotcha tetanus shot, Pac. Would hate fer ya to get lockjaw from dental work.”

Wormwood flexes his injured hand – it still hurts, but it’s useable – and looks ahead for the first signs of the city proper. “Hey guys, most of Rising’s underground, isn’t it? How will we know when we’ve reached it?” Pitbull whips out his lighter and scorches the cigarette in his face into life, exhaling heavily afterward.

Mac shrugs. “Anyone got a map? Maybe we’ve driven past it already. Any of this landscape look familiar to anyone?” He sticks his head out the window to breathe deeply. Wormwood nods and calls up a Rising map from the WorldNet, looking for some signs of entry points. “Sorry,” Pacoy shrugs, one hand finishing his work, “Navigation isn’t in my wheelhouse. Is the GPS still ruining?” “Anyone check the GPS?” Pitbull growls over Maraudio’s “Rock the Casba(The Fuck Shit Up Remix)”

Pan-American Trail
Wednesday, February 22, 2051
1:25 PM

The Lazarus team stands at a now-silent intersection of two highways, the overpass sitting in still rubble around them. Fires from a recently-crashed dune buggy still rage, while several recent combatants bleed out under the desert sun. Wormwood leans against the big Amur SUV, his hand in the grip of the pocket doctor, trying to recover from the pain and blood loss caused by a heavy machine gun bullet ripping through his palm.

Most of the team has gathered to look down into a hideaway created in the ruins of the overpass. The mutilated face of a young woman stares out from the dark crevice, the skin on one half of her face completely ripped away, leaving a metallic skull grinning up at Mac and Wormwood. Her one pale blue eye blinks while the metallic gray one just stares upwards, motionless.

Mac stares at the woman, searching her one eye for something, anything. It’s days like these that I realize there’s little justice in this world, for a dame to get harmed in a way like this… “Miss, c-can you hear me, miss? Are you okay?” Pitbull stares with trepidation, not sure if to help her or shoot her down. I watched Terminator. I think I know how this shit’s goin’ down… Pacoy reaches Wormwood, medical supplies ready “Let me take a look at that, Worm.” Wormwood flinches as the little pocket doc does its best on his mangled hand. “That’s some heavy cyberware that girl has,” he observes. He calls out to Mac, “Hey, try offering her some water or food. I’m not even sure the nomads out here always speak standard American, so gestures might work where words don’t.”

Mac nods back to his friend, digging through his pants pocket for a ration bar, unwrapping the corner of it and holding it out to the girl. “C’mon, Moll, we mean no harm.” He ensures to keep his hands away from his armament as much as possible. He puts one hand to his chest, looking at her intently, introducing himself as “Mac,” before gesturing to her, then back to himself and repeating this several times. Feel like I’ve gone off the preserve and am living with the animals, now… Pitbull steps closer to her, weapon trained on her. “We will not hurt you, but no sudden moves, right?”

Pan-American Trail
Wednesday, February 22, 2051
12:45 PM

What was the intersection of State Road 93 with State Road 71 back in pre-Collapse times is now a ruin of despair. With no government caring for the roads, the pavement has become broken beyond recognition, little more than large chunks of gravel. The intersection has it even worse off – the overpass heading south shattered to pieces long ago, showering the underpass with rubble and creating an unnatural canyon.

The Lazarus team has been following the so-called ‘Pan-American Trail’, a series of roads, trails, and paths that circumvent some of the worst that the Badlands have to offer. State Road 93 is their current path, heading into Rising only a few dozen miles away, but even this ‘safe’ path is rarely trodden – and even rarer does anyone care for it. The pylons holding up the high-speed maglev train high above the grim muck of the Badlands dot the landscape, providing the only evidence of human civilization throughout most of the journey. The Lazarus team has arrived at the intersection of 93 and 71, set on continuing down to Rising – and, from there, their future.

Wormwood stands up in his seat and studies the intersection, through both his own augmented vision and his Valkyrie scope. “Looks like a great place for an ambush, if someone around here was so inclined.” Mac mutters under his breath, counting each one of the pylons as they pass with unerring accuracy. “Who would ambush people who never come down this road, Worm?” Wormwood flips Mac the finger, “Would you rather I didn’t look and we got our tenders caught?” Pacoy mutters under his breath about tempting fate.

Pitbull hums along to Circuit Grin’s “Imminent Shutdown”, a synth heavy, but surprisingly gentle track, as he circumvents boulders and road debris with ease as Mac scoffs. “You’d probably get off on that, Worm. If you look for an ambush, there’s undoubtly going to be an ambush.” Nevertheless, Mac rights his eyes, counting the pylons under his breath without looking at them, his head snaking up to be between Pitbull and Wormwood as he scans the intersection. The only thing more likely to draw an ambush than saying “This would be the perfect spot for an ambush” would be saying “Who would set up an ambush here?” Pacoy thinks to himself as he adjusts the rifle in his lap.

Wormwood stiffens. “Something moved over there! Pits, shut that bloody noise off and stop the car so I can hear.” Pitbull scowls as the music decreases to a murmur. “Whatcha think ya saw?” He growls, with little effort to hide his irritation at turning down his music. Wormwood sends the digital file of the flash of color he spotted to the others’ computers and cranks up the gain on his augmented hearing as the engine dies. “Well I’ll be – that’s quite a thing you’ve spotted there, Wormwood.” Mac whistles through his teeth.

Expedition Equipment Exporters Parking Lot
Wednesday, February 22, 2051
8:15 AM

After finally escaping the nightmare of bureaucratic inefficiency that is The Six, the Lazarus team drove straight on into the night towards their goal, the Expedition Equipment Exporters warehouse store right on the border with the Badlands. They drove up around 2 AM, after the main store had closed but the ever-present market stalls of the nomads who are ExEEx’s primary customers were still up and bustling, and would continue to be so well into the night. The team, tired from the long drive, reclined in their seats (which, unfortunately, weren’t as comfortable as those in a more modern and up-do-date Amur. Still, most of the team were able to get a decent amount of sleep.

It is now the next morning, and Eris, who slept in a luxurious sleeping bag between the Amur and the trailer with the bikes in it, has just wrapped her knuckles upon the Amur’s driver’s side window. A few harmless shards of glass fall off, evidence of one of the big truck’s new bullet-holes.

For the one year anniversary of Edgerunners, we thought we’d let those following the story see behind the curtain. In play, we run a “game chat” on skype which is where the dialogue and description happens – and where the adventure logs come from. We also run a back-stage “Out of character” chat for dice rolls, non-PC interaction and general chat. Here it is in all its unedited glory…

The Six
Tuesday, February 21, 2051
19:30 PM

The Six, what was once known as Interstate Six, is one of the busiest freeways in the world. After the quakes of ’43, the other two major arteries connecting SoCal and NorCal, the 99 and 101, were both closed due to damage and a mess of red tape emerging as a minor border war between NorCal and SoCal, halting any hope of reconstruction.

That leaves The Six as the only major road connection between the two sister states. Repaired, repaved, and expanded on primarily by the megacorporations – as opposed to the state actors supposedly in charge of the operation – The Six now operates as a paragon of industrial efficiency – at least, when the automated toll collection system is working. On those days when it’s down – hacked, damaged by the elements, or just plain broken down – things slow to a crawl as The Six’s privatized police force, 6Sec (supported by both NorCal and SoCal police) collect tolls and make border inspections.

This is one of those days. The Lazarus team is in the middle of one of the greatest gridlocks of recent memory, some two miles from the NorCal/SoCal border. It’s already gone dark, and in the past two hours the team has moved forward all of four miles. 6Sec vertols are hovering above The Six, their spotlights shining down upon the horrendous backlog of cars waiting in line.

Mac sighs, stretching his arms as best he can, feeling trapped like a ferret in a cage, hopped up on caffeine. “Are we there yet?” Pitbull switches the song over to Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer”, before wrestling himself out a cigarette. Wormwood munches on a skewer of chicken tikka he bought from one of the many scooter-born vendors working the massive jam and muses “Pits, we need to find an alternate route, and maybe an alternate pick-up point for the rest of the gear too.” Basically trapped in his seat, Pacoy intently explores the intricate features of the media capabilities of the buzzbot, focusing on the streaming data as it changes from optical input to visual output. This, he thought, is something I should have learned to manipulate at master levels before getting into a situation like this. What was I thinking signing on to be filmed?