Utterly Mad

On the horizon of Walkerville, a shadow grew closer- a figure.

White dress shirt and faded blue jeans, finishing up in stern black shoes. Very obviously borrowed clothes from the refuge center.

The heavily bandaged man had a gladiator helm slung loosely from his left side, dangling along as he walked.

Bow and arrow were slung over his shoulder, neatly behind the double chest holsters bearing .45ACP pistols.

A Gladius type sword strapped tightly into it's sheathe strapped onto the lower of the man's back.

His bandages showed wear and tear, though the most important ones, covering the right side of his face- were seemingly fresh.

The ones concealing his bloodied, burned and torn knuckles however- were not.

A backpack held all of his original Roman-type war clothing inconspicuously.

Cain's steps grew closer toward the impromptu fort of Walkerville.

THREE - De certaminibus et vindictae

Spoiler (hover to show)

https://youtu.be/RB4o-zFy1cM&

(Translated from Latin)

I have encountered a stranger.

Augmented- but I can recognise his pain.

These are no augmentations he bears- they are reminders of what could have been,
if only he had not been where he was.

From what little conversation we had, I could deduce the strong scent of alcoholism.

His slurred movements, his un-sure speech. This is a man with no set will to wake up every day-fall.

I did not want to inquire, for I know the unpleasantry of explaining tragedy.

The stranger- "Ralph", urged me to follow with his comrades.

Nell and Alberto.

I was surprised at their contrast.

Nell, understanding- for a woman.

However I fear I might have understood Alberto's ignorance for disrespect.

Having agreed to move with them toward their camps, in hopes of finding civilisation- I have accepted their inquiry to introduce myself to a woman named Leila.

Unsure if she is related to "War of the Stars", however;

I de-masked myself, and though the bandages cover much of my face, I fear they have recognised the markings of failure.

From here out, I will move towards what they call the "Walkerville"- a settlement from my understanding.

Hopefully, the men and women of this may trade for medicinal supplies, mostly to numb the agony I am in.

Once my recovery has been successful, my path will guide me north-bound in hopes of rescuing my friends from God's Army's grasp.

Though 'The Hall of Odin' has intrigued me. The Norse are a brave people- warriors fighting to the death, where they will awaken in Valhalla, for mead and fight.

Skilled and fearless.

Exactly like my brothers in arms.

Ad honorem.

ONE - Hoc Voluerunt

Spoiler (hover to show)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vSkb0kDacjs&

(Translated from Latin)

The flames of hellfire have scarred me.

Physically and, unfortunately, mentally.

We fought an uphill battle valiantly. But all except me perished.

Johannes- I tried convincing him to desert. Now I have buried his corpse and claimed his duo .45s-

I tried convincing myself it is but of materialistic value, but I could not bring myself to leave them.

I will miss you in ways that mere words cannot grasp the true value of, brother dearest.

We were outnumbered. I claimed the lives of 19 men on that day-

But I still recognised the smell-

The sulfur infiltrating one's lungs and eyes.

The air's ever growing thickness, as if to indicate the imminent loss of battle.

The grey tone set on for those that have let their lives to rest.

I'm a traitor to my comrades and to myself.

And, I've received my punishment.

I can still feel the blistering agony I felt when that God's Army heathen pushed hot oil down the window of our own Fort.

My aim was true despite the anguish. His eye was pierced by one of my tainted arrows.

His death was long and painful. Corrosive acid entering the brain mustn't be a pleasant sensation.

Eye for an eye.

I have six bullet wounds which I've attempted tending to as best as is possible for me.

I am of complete certainty that the lasting gunfire has attracted others.

Forests do tend to give away one's position.

Retreated from battle one moon-turn ago.

I fear, I have died thousands of times- but this is will be my worst death yet.

Via trita, via tuta.

He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to do self-surgery when drunk-
But hey, at least he wouldn’t feel a lot of pain.
He’d definitely feel it in the morning though.

The half empty Jack Daniels stared back at him, as did the four empty whiskey bottles.
It was tempting, but currently his jaw was half-detached.
He took the screwdriver next to him, aligning the left side of the cybernetic jaw with the opening in his cheek, making sure not to squeeze any internal wiring-
“Oh that does feel a bit uncomfortable.” He thought unsure if it was a good idea to push his jaw back into place with brute force and unsterilized hands, though still turning the screw in place delicately until a loud ‘click’ confirmed that his jaw was back in place.
Letting go of the jaw, he attempted moving it, successfully- The loud screeching wasn’t plaguing his ears anymore.
For a moment, just a moment he thought maybe his disregard for his bionics' safety was the reason they kept on malfunctioning, but he quickly went on to ignore that realisation.
Now came the unpleasant part, he grunted when he reached for the needle and thread.
Slowly, piercing his cheek, with the intent of closing up the gaping slits that ran along his cheeks.

The claiming of another man’s life was never pleasant.
But it felt empowering to Ralph in a way that nothing else reminded him of being alive.
The copious amount of alcohol made the endless screams of agony at night fade away.
They deserve no better. At least that’s how he justified it.
And that’s just how he justified it when his fake hand crushed the throat of the choking bandit.
His eyes rolled into the back of his head almost instantly as his corpse swung against the wall like a heavy sack of potatoes.
Sweat had formed on Ralph’s back, darkening a large space in a shade on the back of his white shirt.
The motel was creaky. He knew he could use this to his advantage, but the floorboards were traitors, even to him.
Of course, the loud squeaking of his defunct cybernetic leg wasn’t helping his case.
He leaned against the left wall of the tight hallway, just as the door a few feet in front of him flew open.
His 1887 flew from shoulder-hoisted, to chest height in a matter of seconds, pumping whoever was standing in the doorframe full of lead.
The shadowy figure flew back into the room they came from.
Ralph didn’t bother checking, bandit or scavenger, they were either going to bleed out very soon, or in this case, be dead upon impact as the flechette rounds made their way squeezing through the ribcage into the heart.
While the shot was silenced, Ralph was sure unless the last few survivors were deaf, they’d know something was up.
He racked the lever back and forth in one swift motion, just as the door next to him creaked open.
A gloved hand slowly peaked a Glock 22 out the small open space, prompting Ralph to shuffle his body in front of the door, his boot following suit as he kicked the door against the hand.
A loud popping noise, followed by a gunshot rang out- Only interrupted by the muffled “FUCK” of the would-be assailant, though everything following the gunshot was just drowned out for Ralph and replaced by a familiar ringing.
He kept his boot on the door, pressing down harder, shotgun directly up next to the door, which much to the bandit’s dismay, fired and penetrated.
The disarmed hand went limp instantaneously- confirming the kill.
Ralph took his foot off of the wooden door, resting his eyes on the gunshot entries for just a second, interrupted however by a .22 firing into the doorframe.
He turned on his heel just in time as a second and third shot went off, adrenaline pumping, and it was that same feeling of excitement again, the same feeling that defined his state of being alive.
He racked the lever and fired- and even as the body dropped he kept on racking and firing until the firearm refused and clicked.
His breathing so heavy it turned into wheezing, he stared at the mutilated corpse, as if it could jump back up and shoot at him at any second.
But even after minutes that felt like eternity to Ralph, it didn’t, which put him at ease.
This would be the last of the grunts, then.
He stepped over the mess of flesh, blonde hair, eyeballs and brain matter, undoing the first two buttons of his sweat covered shirt, and reaching into the chest-holster underneath it.
And while he was stepping into the run-down room, he pulled the P38 from it.
“Listen man- I-I don’t want any trouble alright? I’m unarmed-”
Ralph turned slightly, empty shotgun in one hand and used the butt of said shotgun to shove the door closed.
“Mind sitting down?”
Ralph nodded towards the torn down bed, which he himself wouldn’t sleep in even if somebody paid him for it.
Teary blue eyes stared at him, confused for just a second, but ultimately convinced by Ralph nonchalantly waving the barrel of the P38 at him from leg-height.
“Right then, how do these work again..”
Ralph pulled out a small mobile grey camera, ridden with scratches.
“W-What are you trying to do? I think you’re supposed to press that-”
He fiddled with the grey device a bit longer before being interrupted again.
“The button, on the top of the camera-”
Click.
“Yeah, that one.”
He looked at the displayed photograph of decaying wooden floorboards on the display of the camera for a second, before aiming the camera at the young man.
“Say cheese.” Ralph muttered, before taking the picture. The flash blinded the gangster sitting on the bed, Ralph however ignored his tormented “What was that for?!” yellings, his vision fixed on the picture displayed, suddenly aiming the Walther at the target’s head and firing.
He looked up from the camera’s display towards the corpse of the charcoal-haired man, before aiming the camera at the body again, and taking a second picture.

“Before and after.” He mumbled, holstering his Walther, turning on his heel once more and leaving.