[DnD] Gamma World: Strange, yet symbolically compelling

1 Die Roll DID A SQUEEZE DIE

The Brohaus continues groping blindly in Skittles' direction, muttering darkly about "bitches" and issuing vile curses at whomever stole the keg, which wasn't cheap, dude.

Exposed to toxic concentrations of the Brohaus' cheap body spray, poor Squeeze Majello breathes his last.

Skittles 9, Klickies 24, Doc 18, Hershfeld 14 (KO), Stonum 11 (KO), Brohaus 11

[Map]

FELIPE NO

2 Dice Rolls *Plunge again

In honor of his fallen comrade, Skittles turns to the nearest living Klicky and gives him/her the most soul-piercing look he can manage. Skittles whispers, "I've heard sex is a killer. Wanna die happy?" and touches the surprised roach in the most erogenous of zones.

Ectoplasmic Plunge on Klicky in K23 - (16+4+1=21 vs. 14)
Damage =(9+4+2) = 15
Shift to square I23

"Hey Brohouse! I'll bet those aren't even real muscles, dude. I've seen better muscle tone on my grandmother!"

What, you don't want my bikini-clad body?

After the roaches do whatever (probably embarrass themselves) Doc continues his travel toward his dying comrade. And the talking blood-fountain.

Trade in standard action for move action and move toward Stonum as far as possible.

Jam it back in, in the dark.

3 Dice Rolls 2525, IF DWARF IS STILL ALIVE

The last of the Klickies makes an almost perfunctory effort to destroy Skittles, the bludgeoning attempt reduced to little more than a nudge. Meanwhile, Skittles' taunting draws the house's attention away from the unending roach genocide.

"FAKE? FAKE? I HAVE MORE SWOLE IN MY PINKY THAN YOU HAVE IN YOUR ENTIRE—"

Brohaus' muscly arms flail around haplessly as Doc zips past him.

"ACTUALLY YOU BROS ARE LOOKING PRETTY CUT. NO HOMO. WHAT'S YOUR ROUTINE?"

Skittles 9, Klicky 24, Doc 18, Hershfeld 14 (KO), Stonum 11 (KO), Brohaus 11

Arrrgh somebody do something interesting

[Map]

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1 Die Roll Attack

Skittles reflected on his father's dying words ("Never leave a genocide unfinished") and got up close and personal with the last cockroach.

(7+4+1=12 vs 14) FAIL

"What was that, Klicky? Hey Brohaus, this roach here in front of me says he could take you down blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back. Are you going to take that kind of smack talk, bro?"

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

1 Die Roll CLEAR

"Don't worry, I know CPR!"


Attempt some sort of medical tomfoolery to stop Stonum from migrating to the great distillery in the sky.

13 - 1 (lolol) = 12.

Well, I tried.


How ya doing, buddy?

Brohaus takes a swipe at the last remaining Klicky, and Skittles uses the diversion to slip past and skitter up the side of the anthropomorphic dwelling and onto his roof. He tears off a loose roof tile and douses it in some of the lantern oil from his pack. As carefully as one can from the top of a moving house, Skittles strikes a match, sets the tile ablaze, and tosses it down the chimney. Before he can make his escape, an explosion propels the cockroach 30 feet in the air. He lands with a thump, and turns to see that Brohaus (and the poor Klicky) are now engulfed in flames.

"You're FIREd!" Skittles yells, to the amusement of no one.

I was speaking idiomatically.

The Brohaus pauses his ceaseless posturing for a moment upon being ignited, his repertoire of poorly-conceived homophobic insults shocked into silence. At length, a trickle of tears begins to pour out of the second floor windows. When he speaks, his voice quavers, a mixture of exultation and regret.

"Little dudes, I have been getting huge since the days of your grandfathers. I have benched tanks and deadlifted jets. I once won a tug of war with a herd of migrating Triceratops. I am far more swole than your puny minds can conceive of, but only today, only now, do I really... feel... the burn.".

The klicky deals with immolation far less stoically, and runs shrieking into the night.

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Illithid fleets on fire on the edge of the crystal spheres. I watched silver dragons glitter in the dark near the Carceri Gate. All those moments will be all fucked up, what the fuck, you douche."

Before long, the Brohaus is totally engulfed in flame, and his angry soliloquy is inaudible over the roaring of the fire as it consumes him. Only one last indignant inquiry makes it to Skittles' ears before Brohaus departs the world entirely.

"Do you... even... lift?"

The screaming ape and the dwarf struggle to their feet after awhile, staring in awe as the massive meat-cube broils away. The fire rages through the night, and only as a storm rolls in during the early dawn hours do the embers cool down enough to safely approach. Nearly everything in the building has been reduced to ash, and what little remains intact is already being cannibalized by dozens of klickies (too timid to fight, but willing to endure a great deal of discomfort to find new toys for their nests). The intense heat has literally boiled the remains of Squeeze, sending clouds of Squeeze vapor into the atmosphere. People for miles around will be inhaling bits of Squeeze Majello for months. Skittles isn't sure whether to be sad or disgusted. Maybe a little of both.

It's about then that the skeleton claps Doc on the shoulder. It looks friendly, as ambulatory skeletons go (that is to say, completely expressionless).

How ya doing, buddy?

Dr. Andesite shrieks in alarm.

FELIPE NO

The dwarf somehow manages to get back on his feet, though it is not without considerable effort. A rather intrusive WUB WUB pulsates in his head, giving him an idea for an eventual hip new musical act. His head feels like it could explode at any given moment. As he turns to see the smoldering remains of Brohaus, he suddenly has a moment of sadness for the mutated horror that it was.

A sadness that is only compounded by the realization that his precious stock of magical fun-times powder has probably vanished with whatever it was that animated this one of a kind monument to physical fitness everywhere.

After taking a swing of his EVERCLEAR to clear (hurrhurr) his head, Stonum pours a shot on the stoop of what was once Brohaus, before turning to witness the undead creature approaching the doctor.

"Oy, you better not be an elven skeleton, or you'll find this life will not end much better than your last."

What, you don't want my bikini-clad body?

"Easy friend" commented the living bones, lifting the cigarette to his lips in what was no doubt an empty gesture, given the fact that beneath that suit he wore, he didn't seem to actually have lungs. Or skin. Or bones. Or, you know, stuff.
"Hell of a fight" he continued, somehow flaring the cherry of his cigarette to life despite the lack of an obvious respiratory system, "I hear that guy lifted. He, uh... he used to mention it a lot, actually. It was a thing."

Removing his skeletal digits from the shrieking doctor's shoulder he reached down and brushed off the thigh of his suit pants, freeing ash from them and letting them drop down around the tank treads he called feet. "So, new jack, what's your name?" He offered to the still screaming doctor, sliding his cigarette into his mouth and extending the hand that had until recently held the cancer stick. "Name's Murray. Murray Rasputin. Dead Private Eye and Paranormal Investigator."



While pumping the still wailing doctor's hand enthusiastically he replied to Stonum with an easy "Don't remember what I was there, Fella. Been a sentient bag of bones as long as I can remember. I mean, do you remember a time before you were short and ugly?"

How ya doing, buddy?

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Murray. I'm Skittles, and my friends and I appear to have gotten off on the wrong foot with folks around here. Seeing as how we're new in the neighborhood, can you recommend us a good place to get a drink, kick back for awhile?"

As he is introducing himself to the skeleton, Skittles notices Hershfeld sprawled on the ground a few feet away, only now he appears to Skittles as a beautiful young female cockroach. Perhaps his chances of getting some action haven't gone up in smoke after all. Skittles shyly waves in Hershfeld's direction.

There's nowhere I can't reach.

The Doctor blinked slowly, reorienting himself to his surroundings and taking in the scene that lay before him. Medical school had been a particularly stressful time in his life, and every so often certain triggers resulted in him entering a state of catatonic horror. Being greeted by one of the skeletons on which he learned anatomy (mind you, those ones were less tank and more biped) was something of a shock.

Continuing his survey of the immediate area, the keen-eyed rock noticed that the creature who had seemed to self-destruct in the previous melee was one of his own kind! So preoccupied had he been earlier attempting to shake the dwarf awake resuscitate the dwarf that he hadn't even noticed.

His momentary lapse of his faculties a thing of the past, he rushed to greet his stony brethren.

"'Lo, friend!" He held out his closed fist expectantly, in the way of their people.

This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

With no hesitation, the skeleton balled up his fist and brofisted the hell out of the doctor. Fireworks exploded, angels cried, eagles flew f-14's in formation. Somewhere a band played the stars and stripes.

"You can put your feet up pretty much anywhere around here, pally, but as for a good drink, I have no idea. Tastebuds and such, you know?" He smirked, again, as much as one can without lips.

"So why are you all out here, proving who's the best lifter?"

I am a dolphin, do you want me on your body?

Sensing that his self-imagined position as cool guy of the group is being threatened, Stonum reaches into his pack for his trusty pipe. He sticks it in his mouth, glances quickly at the skeleton to make sure he is looking, and turns to the good doctor to answer a question that he didn't ask.

"It is quite elementary, my dear Andesite. If we are to make it to Enver most precipitously, we will need to find out where Brohaus stashed the fuel he used to fill his furnace and keep his lifting abilities at their most fantabulously astounding max levels."

Stonum draws a long breath from his unlit pipe, turning as if looking around to blow out his non-smoke, hoping no one will notice his lack of forethought and general relevance as a living being.

I was speaking idiomatically.

As much as the dwarf appeared to be a bumbling idiot and surely had no real appreciation of energy metabolism, he did manage to suggest a somewhat reasonable course of action.

"Perhaps our late friend Squishy had the right idea in attempting to investigate the basement of the moving house. Bug-face, your people are good at finding junk. Why don't you go plumb the depths and see what you can come up with?"

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1 Die Roll stuff

Seizing on any opportunity to impress his potential mate, Skittles makes his way to the nearest (now hopefully) unoccupied house. His preoccuption with the possibility of sex distracts him from looking where he's walking, and the cockroach trips over the corpse of one of his dead kinsmen. "I'm ok, nothing to worry about," he sputters as he picks himself up in a most undignified manner.

Fortunately the fleeing roaches had left their front door wide open, so Skittles is able to enter with no problems. He checks his surroundings for any clues as to a source of food or fuel, thinking to himself that a map would be lovely.

Check for stuff: 6+9=15

FELIPE NO

Sighing to himself in disappointment, Andy muttered, "that's fine, I'll check it out myself" and trudged toward the foundation from which the Brohaus uprooted itself to see if there's anything of interest below ground level.

What, you don't want my bikini-clad body?

While Doc searches the subterranean basement Brohaus tore himself away from, Skittles examines another random neighborhood for supplies. The returns on their investigations are... interesting.

While the basement is largely a dusty ruin of old newspapers and... well, just more dust, generally (Brohaus had a bit of a psoriasis problem), there is the intriguing matter of the massive glass canisters full of yellowish goop, and the massive rusty needles jutting out of their tops. Most of the canisters have shattered, but between the remainder there's probably still enough to fill a wading pool. There's a smashed-up crate leaking the same stuff over in a corner: the old shipping label names a "Massive Potential Industries" but declines to identify the product with any specificity beyond "OGH". There's also a crowbar and a claw hammer lying around, both in pretty decent shape beyond a little rust and being goop-drenched.

Skittles' search for a map meets no success, but his trawl of 2336 S Fairfax Dr is not without its own rewards. With the violence over the remaining klickies are somewhat more genial with their distant cousin, and he exits the house with a few of their odd treasures: a RobCo "Robot Repair Kit", a sleeveless pink t-shirt advertising the "Finest Mustaches Inc 1976 Company Picnic And Going Out Of Business Sale-A-Bration of Despair", an extremely small-caliber rifle bearing the marque "Rude Raider", and an empty, flattened and ritually cleansed spray canister of pesticide ("Kills Roaches Deadest!").

Jam it back in, in the dark.

One never knows when a robot repair kit could come in handy, so Skittles pockets that. He stares with awe and reverance at the pink wife beater, and slowly puts it on, aware that he is not worthy to convey its incredible message of whisker wonderment to the world.

He runs outside exuberantly. "Guys! Guys! Check out this bitchin' shirt I found!" Ignoring his companions' nonplussed reaction, Skittles changed the subject. "You know, it seems like we've found about all there is to find in this neighborhood. Maybe it's time to move on. That weird building off in the distance that kind of looks like a fist could be a good place to show a lady a great time; how's about we check it out?" He sends a wink in Hershfeld's direction.

Spoiler:

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"Fist? I always thought it sort of looked more like a duck. You know, if you sort of turn your head sideways and squint. Otherwise maybe a rabbit. Point is, not a fist."



This thing is sticky, and I don't like it. I don't appreciate it.

"Perhaps it is a fighting dojo then? I've heard stories of duck warriors using a mighty stance called the Flying V, which disorients opponents before crushing their hopes and dreams. It would be kickass if we could learn that!"

I am a dolphin, do you want me on your body?

The doctor turns and gestures toward the northwest.

"Now that looks like a fist."



Intrigued as he is by all manner of pharmaceuticals, he takes a thermos full of the OGH in anticipation of future clinical trials and returns to where the other members of the adventurers' club are standing in the middle of the road, with slack jaws and glassy stares.

I was speaking idiomatically.

As his companions are debating the very important question of anatomically correct buildings and landscapes, Stonum decides to investigate the strange goo lying in the basement of the house. After the great goo fire and barbecue of New Iregard Keep (basically a fort built with cardboard boxes he soaked in oil because he liked the smell), he learned that flammable liquids are usually best dealt with in isolation, and so he drags one of the barrels out of the house into an open area.

He proceeds to dump some of the liquid on the ground, taking great care to distance the barrel from the spill, and sets about lighting it on fire with his (previously misplaced) pipe lighter.

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Exposed to the OGH Stonum deliberately spills from the canister, much of the grass in the overgrown yard begins growing at an alarmingly accelerated rate, shortly leaving the stout Stonum literally in over his head. Several varieties of beetle and caterpillar squirm unpleasantly over his feet, having bloated to the size of small cats. Regardless, Stonum ignites the puddle of goop and muscles his way out of the tall grass, marveling as the huge vermin die a fiery death, never understanding the reason behind why they got so totally huge.

Dense yellow clouds billow out of the greasy grass fire, and a bird flying overhead squawks and plummets to the ground with a splat as its mass rapidly becomes untenable for conventional flight.

There is a muffled explosion as the fire inevitably reaches the barrel despite Stonum's attempts to separate it, and the smoke thickens into an impermeable oily haze. The yellow column rises into the clouds.

The klickies pour back out of their homes, excitedly clicking away with their salvaged Polaroids. This was a day that was going to finally put Fairfax Drive on the map!

A dragonfly roughly the size of Stonum's truck smashes messily in the ground near his feet.

How ya doing, buddy?