Move to Pain: A Saturday Night Carnage Story

Move to Pain

Benicio is exhausted after such a long day of surviving through his second day in this hell. He drags his feet as he walks and limply carries his bow and arrow, expression frustrated. The football pads, leather jacket and metal plate that he'd put together were getting heavy on his unfit body, and he felt like he could just fall over and sleep on the road right there if he did not manage to spot a sign along the side of the road. One colored blue with white letterings and symbols, as well as an arrow guiding him down the road and then to a turn. Inching closer, he was able to squint hard enough to make out a name, one of an organization. "RELIEF ORGANIZATION OF MELNLAND", read the sign. 'Relief' made Benicio think of a group of doctors and saints providing aid to those less fortunate. He only hoped that was what awaited him down the road and around the corner.. And off of that whim alone, he walked until he reached the turn, and began down there.

This road felt like every other. Husked cars here and there was garbage everywhere, as well as the occasional skeleton. They were never desiccated, instead always looking to have been picked clean by carrion eaters, with shreds of clothes by their remains and whatever loot they had having been long, long gone. The occasional awkward staredown with a passer-by irked Benicio, and at one point he had to aim his bow at a man who accosted him with a screwdriver to get him to piss off. But the trekking paid off as eventually he came across what seemed to be a large, long-abandoned soccer stadium, completely covered in graffiti. But fromacross it, light, and several tents erected. Among them, people moving and conversing, people collected and civilized. That was a sight that impressed Benicio in a place like this, but he wasn't surprised when he saw this large encampment was surrounded by chainlink fences and a sandbag wall.

There were various entrances to the place. All of them were attended to by people in blue aprons who seemed to greet those who came along with very gentle tones. Some folk were turned away, while others were let in. Ben wasn't able to determine a rhyme or reason as to how these people were judged, as in who was let in and who was turned away, but he attributed it to his brain being tired. But it seemed he was right; this did seem to be some sort of humanitarian location. Now, if only they'd have mercy on him. He shambles towards one entrance.

At its entrance, a meek man - On further inspection, barely a man. It's a young man, maybe even teenage, who has a smooth but acne-ridden face with wide, gray-green eyes, complemented by his messy, ashy auburn hair. He's also deathly thin and short in stature, too fragile to survive a place like this, and some of that is explained when Ben took a look down at the bright blue apron. "RELIEF ORGANIZATION OF MELNLAND''. Indeed, he seems to have come across some sort of humanitarian group. Approaching the fence gate just as the meek boy finishes turning away a frazzled-looking man with a horrific face, abnormal gait and tattered clothing who only went away when a bulky, headgeared man in armor walked up behind him with a baseball bat brandished, Ben could see the pain in the boy's eyes as he ordered the man to leave. There was a pout to his lip and an uncertainty on his face, and it remained even as he turned his attention to Ben.

Ben acted casual as he walked up. Getting the usual stares from people who knew about the metal pods pelting the land, he tried to act inconspicuous when he looked at the attendant in the booth. His recurve bow rested by its string upon his shoulder. "Hello," started Ben, "i'm assuming you've got some sort of camp here? What do you folk do here?" The boy forced a smile onto his face and leaned forward. "Hi, sir! You're correct - This is a.." The boy speaks awkwardly and with a sort of displeasure on his face, as if still irked from the last person who tried to enter. "..relief camp. We have - Food, water, here.. All clean. We also provide medical care and clothing... But - We only give all of this to people who need it. We're stretched a little thin and.." His small, skinny hands clench on the table momentarily. "..we can't access our other locations." He looks away while Ben remains staring at him. So far, everything going on here had confused Ben. From the talks of a "Karak", to the country justiciars hunting bandit gangs and protecting small towns, and the other fighters running around and causing chaos. What he found most bizarre was that emblem.

It was the logo of Sophiamunda Galactic News, and it flew high up in the abandoned, open-ish stadium. Although, it was modified. Instead of the silhouette of the star system Bolsonaro IV imposed onto a planet with purple, violet and black colors, it was the silhouette of a gauntlet upon a hand, clenched into a fist, imposed on a planet. The colors were the same, however. What the hell were they doing here? Could this be an outpost of theirs? Because so far, he didn't see any ordinators. The ordinators.. Their metal masks and their tall helmets, as well as their bulky cloaks. They still intimidated him, ever since they kidnapped him. Looking to his left, however, Ben quickly examined the masked man with the bat while the receptionist took his time. He wore a ballistic vest reinforced with a metal plate over a jacket. Additionally on his person was a pair of cargo pants and an armband. Lastly, on his hip was a snub-nosed revolver.

Ben was good with a gun, and he was itching to get to use one again. Envious of the man, he cleared his throat, trying to get the boy's attention as he turned back to face the booth. "It's fine - I'm sure a lot of people here need help. I've seen the condition of this area, I'm impressed you're all able to feed so many mouths." Suddenly, the attendant's smile stretches out more, as if a bit of genuinity entered the forced expression. He seems more attentive, as if he needed some sort of light conversation. "Ah - So you're new here? Wow - I don't know why you'd ever want to come around here.-" There's a chuckle from the attendant and a grim laugh muttered from Ben as he looks behind him in the line to enter. Nobody, still, but he can see folks approaching. He predicts most are heading to the other entrances.

While Benicio looks behind himself, however, he spots the frazzled man shambling towards another collective of tents just outside of the stadium. It's large and messy, and has a buzz to it as well - It seems to consist of people who have been rejected from the encampment, which is a little saddening to Benicio. But he figures he'd humor the attendant, while fixing to turn his shoulder and point to the tent cluster in due time "You could say that I'm new. It's been terrible out here, I'm not used to just wandering. So I guess.." Benicio points to the outside cand. "Well, could you tell me what's going on over there?" For just a moment, the attendant feels nervous. Everyone who had passed had been straightforward - Nobody had been nearly as talkative or unjaded as Benicio out here, and he wasn't sure why this conversation was stretching out for so long. But he felt happy, he wanted to talk to somebody. "Ah - That's some shanty.. I don't know what they call it, but there's a lot of people out there.." He sighs. "The guard calls them squatters, but-"

The baseball bat of the guard slams onto the corner of the table outside of the booth, creating a violent and loud sound. There's a fearfully sobbing shriek from the boy while Benicio jolts to the side, fists clenched. "I don't think we're fucking keeping you safe just so you could have some dreamy little conversation with a random." These words are snarled out by the enigmatic guard, who leers between the boy and Benicio. "Get your fairy ass to work and make up your mind. Is he going in or out?" The guard glares through his metal eyemask at the boy, before looking back at Benicio and spotting something. "No, here's your answer," he blurts out, as he grabs something from underneath Benicio's jacket and tugs. Benicio nearly pushes the man away, but restrains himself. It's just his collar - What's so incriminating about the collar underneath the leather jacket he wore?

It was the collar to a white dress shirt, and between either end where the collar finished was the knot to a brown tie, nestled neatly in his collar. Leaving his collar disheveled and out of his jacket, the man reached down and grabbed his forearm by the sleek, screened device on it. setting his forearm down on the table in front of the booth. "Here's a poddie." The boy's new frown widened as a new sorrow was visible in his eyes. "If these clean-ass pants and nice leather shoes weren't enough, yeah, here's a poddie. Tell him our policy." The boy doesn't say a word. He looks down, hurt. He'd just met this man, yes - This wasn't what he was almost crying over. He would have cried about the misery he lived in, the suffering without civilization. But for now, he swallowed hard and looked solemnly at Benicio. "N-No poddies. Came from the.. pods. You h-have to go." There's terrible confliction in his voice as he orders Benicio off. There is a look of betrayal in Benicio's face, as is natural - But he knows he hadn't known this boy for long. He wasn't owed anything, and taking these handouts would be bad for him, or so he thought. So quickly, he forced himself to believe that charity would be bad for him. There was no protest from Benicio, no questioning. They had their rules, and Benicio left.

And like a moth to a flame, he started towards the shanty.

Benicio's tired walking sped up as he looked back at the camp and the young man in the booth, footsteps quick against the dry, dead dirt as he neared the large collection of shacks and tents, particularly on guard. Any combat here would be in extremely close quarters, and with that in mind, he wields the flimsy pocket knife he arrived here with. If he could land a jab to the eye or throat, that'd be enough to gain the upper hand. People pass by as they approach the relief encampment following departure from the shanty. From their looks, he's able to tell the quality of life here wasn't great. And then, Benicio made it into the shanty proper. Between all the tents and shoddy constructions were messy pathways of packed, dusty earth, kicked up by passers-by and muddied from travel. Benicio avoided the puddles of mud here and there, and almost immediately walked into a bazaar. People around offered wares, but none were too flattering. It was like a market of scrap and trinkets. Eventually, people seemed to be selling food, but Benicio didn't fancy food poisoning. Seeing people trade in cigarettes for food brought his mind back to the pack of cigarettes in his pocket - He hoped he'd just have to trade a single cigarette for something decent to eat. Wandering upon a stall that didn't scare him, he was able to get a plastic bottle of water and a stout, split roll of some poor-quality bread with only three cigarettes, leaving him with 12 left. The kindly merchant waved Ben goodbye, and returned to hollering at passers-by.