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Germain rides near the doctor and talks shop with him. Germain is actually surprisingly knowledgeable about human anatomy, especially considering some of the other gaps in her medical knowledge. It seems likely to McCoy that Germain is a surgeon or at least trained as one. Her expertise with the internal coupled with the gaps in her general medical knowledge suggests that she is a cutter. McCoy also can't help but guess that Germain is older then she seems. The volume she seems to know suggests to McCoy she's probably actually closer to his age then the teen girl she sometimes likes to play.
Good luck in your venture sapients.
The small sphere zips off
The group travels through the HVCS and takes the main thouroughfare southwards towards the distant metropolis of Nu Ork.
As they travel, they see tall buildings, sparkling geodomes, and a myriad of sights they hadn't even thought possible. It is as if a small piece of the Golden Age was left unspoiled in the middle of the wastelands. No trash, no wreckage, no bones. The grass is green and water literally shoots from the ground to keep it lush.
Even though the area looks like a paradise, the party can't help but notice that most of the citizens they pass don't look all that happy. A small child and his mother are in a small park near the road. The child picks up a stick and begins poking at a small anthill when his mother turns her back. She stifles a small scream when she turns about, but sirens are already flashing on several small spheres like the ones that had talked to the group previously.
Warning. Unneccessary agression detected. Citizen Harv McNugget. You are being cited. Please stand still.
The terrified child drops the stick and stands rigid in his grey jumpsuit. His mother freezes in mid-sob. The talking sphere projects a large red stop sign.
Citizen Harv McNugget, you have been cited for unneccessary violence and aggression against a subsapient creature. This is your second citation. A third citation will neccessitate a temporary relocation to the Bureau of Psychological Hygene. Please make a note of this.
The several small spheres stop projecting their stop signs and zip off. The mother runs forward and hugs her crying child
The road winds on in duralloy splendor for several miles before the group meets a gatehouse like the one they entered by. They are scanned again, and released without any problem. The guard advises them to stay on the road, Route 116, until they reach the ruins of Holy Oak. From there they can take a riverboat down the Neticut River or travel along the Old 91*
*Cocaman:
Warning. Unneccessary agression detected. Citizen Harv McNugget. You are being cited. Please stand still.
The terrified child drops the stick and stands rigid in his grey jumpsuit. His mother freezes in mid-sob. The talking sphere projects a large red stop sign.
Citizen Harv McNugget, you have been cited for unneccessary violence and aggression against a subsapient creature. This is your second citation. A third citation will neccessitate a temporary relocation to the Bureau of Psychological Hygene. Please make a note of this.
The several small spheres stop projecting their stop signs and zip off. The mother runs forward and hugs her crying child
"That ain't right. Think we should do anything about it?"
"Young boys are especially destructive," Germain says, as if quoting from something, "these destructive tendencies only become entrenched and refined in the traditional patriarchal society. The roots of all war can be found in young boys encouraged to play with guns or swords."
"'The hell is that supposed to mean?"
The group keeps heading south. Even past the borders of the Happy Valley Collectivist State, order is somewhat preserved. The road remains good, at least for the first ten miles or so. Then it reverts back to its usual cracked and potholed nature. There aren't a lot of ruins hereabout, it looks as if most structures have been long scavenged to the point of destruction.
The party makes good time for the rest of the day, and see hardly any beings as they head out. An occasional flatbed truck loaded with scrap lumbers by heading north.
Towards evening time, the party comes to an ancient stand of forest. The trees here look as if they've been in the spot since well before the Fimbulwinter. Evidence of that long-ago catastrophe can still be seen in the many deadfall snags under the sprawling tree canopy. Route 116 seems to shoot straight through it. Right before the forest is a fairly large roadside inn with the curious name of the Spider's Wick. Several wagons and large mechanical trucks are parked in its fenced-in yard.
Germain draws her rifle as they approach and using her HUD she looks over the camp's occupants:
Spot 1d20+8
There aren't a lot of folks visible outside, but Germain hears the squeal of air tools being used in an outbuilding, one that looks like a smithy/machine shop. There are two men with rifles at the main chainlink gate. As the group approaches one calls out:
"Yew folks lookin' for a bed fer the night? We gots room an' board an' some repairs should yew need'em."
"Yup. Cocaman here. You gots beer? Girlies?"
The guard laughs.
"We gots beer. We even gots a few roadhouse honeys. We gots stables over there, 5 credits a night for stabling, and some feed depending on what yer mount eats. Rooms are 10 credits a night. We take HVCS and gold at face value."
They unlock the chain gate and swing it open.
"Come on in."
The tavern sports a large neon sign with a spider perched on a thread above a lit candle. The electricity is working, and music can be heard coming from inside. The stablehands grab their mounts and they amble into the common room.
The clientele looks to be scavvers mostly, and travelers. A few Nu Orkers sit in a corner, babbling in the dialect-heavy Anglish. There are a few weird-dressed folks in a corner sipping ales. They seem to be wearing reproductions of costumes from the distant past of Old Humanity, before the Golden Age, possibly before electricity. The women sport pointed hats and the men are dressed either in robes or kilts.
A few regular-looking folks dance to some old music from a large machine, including a few women of dubious character. One Nu Orker dances as well, pumping his fist in the air as he grinds one of the skanks.
"You don't like milk?" Germain asks, "mama always said that if you drink your milk you'll grow up big and strong. You do want to grow up big and strong right Mr Firefly?"
"It ain't that. Seems like your age changes, every town we come through."
Lonnie moves over to the bar and sits down on the floor, so that his head is at the same level as the other patrons'.
"Shot o' whisky, pint o' beer, please. Irish, if you got 'em."
"My age?" Germain asks, eyes wide with surprise, "how could that happen?"
Germain pats her face as if expecting it to be younger, places her hand on top of her head as if expecting herself to be shorter, and breaths a sigh of relief when she discovers nothing amiss. Her eyes narrow as she turns to Lonnie.
"I think you're trying to play a cruel trick on me Mr Firefly and I don't like it."
"My age?" Germain asks, eyes wide with surprise, "how could that happen?"
Germain pats her face as if expecting it to be younger, places her hand on top of her head as if expecting herself to be shorter, and breaths a sigh of relief when she discovers nothing amiss. Her eyes narrow as she turns to Lonnie.
"I think you're trying to play a cruel trick on me Mr Firefly and I don't like it."
"I'm just callin' things as I see 'em. Don't mean to cause a fuss. Slainte."
Lonnie slams back a shot of whisky.
"So Mr barkeeper," Germain says smiling and flashing her eyes, "what stories do you have? What's been happening?"
The barkeep looks down at the diminutive girl
"Well, been lot of folks stirred up lately. Lotta talk about what the Wrecker folks been doing out west. Also got some folks sayin' there's an outbreak of Romero down south. Them folks from Holy Oak," He jabs a finger over at the Ren Faire refugees in the corner. "Are 'sposedly on their way to talk to OMNUS about some aid."
He pauses to fill a few drinks
"Other than the usual spidder attacks in the forest, not much. How 'bout you folks? You sound like northerners, you from Hamshire or Verminont?"