The smoke has finally dissipated above the shattered ruins of the Citadel, which gleam like broken teeth underneath the full moon. Nothing stirs but a few monstrous mutated rats who feast upon the spilled leavings beneath the catering tables, until a single bite of the chili seizes up their limbs and they expire in squeaking agony.
The lower levels of the old tire factory are still largely intact. Down there are lightless vaults, unviewed by human eyes for most of a decade, where Fleetwoodâs stoutest cybernetic assistants were charged with storing many of his rarest and most precious prizes. There lies, undisturbed, untold plunder that Fleetwood amassed throughout his ascendancy to power, much of which he no longer remembers he possesses.
But thereâs a good reason itâs still down there after all this time, and a good reason why he doesnât see fit to remove it.
The Citadel itself has long been rumored haunted by the unquiet shades of its long-dead builders, men who labored in torment and perished in darkness to build an Assyrian palace in Los Angeles to flatter the ego of a megalomaniacal rubber tycoon. The ghosts cause little trouble on the upper, aboveground levels of the Citadel, so Fleetwood didnât believe in their existence, and in fact thought it a clever plan to hide his valuables down in the basement, since the mere reputation of the spectersâ fury could serve as a cheap deterrent to thievery.
A late night visit downstairs to gloat over his vintage Air Jordan collection soon disabused him of his casual attitude toward the spirits. He wonât talk about what happened, but hasnât since displayed any urge to retrieve anything from the catacombs underneath the factory floor. At the moment, Fleetwood appears to have abandoned the Citadel completely, though it must be killing him to leave such a trove behind.
We need a few things from down there. First of all, heâs got gas. One hundred 55-gallon drums, all treated with Extended-Duty STA-BIL fuel stabilizer, so your engines will run better than they have in the last ten years. But thereâs much more down there. Not just weapons and armor, but things we could actually use on Mars. Paranoid asshole he may be, but Fleetwood is an utterly first-class packrat.
But Iâm not about to go down into the Citadelâs catacombs, nor will I send any of you down there, without having something to deal with the restless dead. And I know just the guy to enlist.
Some of you will have to join me as I drive out to the Westside to pick up my old pal Billy. He and his brother Brian have a thing or two we could use to help us infiltrate the Citadel. Last I heard, however, they were holed up in Billyâs house, surrounded by zombies and dug in for a very long siege. If we can extricate them, I think theyâll be inclined to help us.
I also want to approach an old friend who usually haunts the Roxy over on Sunset. Donât let his appearance frighten you. In fact, he was dead and zombified years before it became cool in that neighborhood, but his system was so pickled before the zombification process begun that nobody really noticed the difference, least of all him.
Thereâs some vital astrogational data weâll need for the Mars trip, and Starkâs copy was destroyed aboard his Helicarrier. Two archival copies exist. Well, technically, three copies exist, but one of those happens to be an inconvenient distance away:
Thereâs a copy at Amoeba Records in Hollywood, and another underneath the site of the old Tower Records on Sunset. The Sunset Strip is fairly overrun with rock-and-roll zombies, which not only move faster and hit harder than your garden-variety Deadites, but are also capable of driving cars. And wait until you see what they drive:
Their concentration is pretty easily broken, however, if you play the right kind of music at suitably earsplitting volume, for the only thing they love more than driving fast and eating the brains of the living is rocking out hard to the tunes of their misspent lives.
There are many more Rock Zombies on the Strip near Tower, so it might seem that Amoeba Records would be a safer target, but⌠well, Amoebaâs got problems of its own.
Yep, thatâs The Blob. Impervious to all physical attacks (youâll remember they resorted to freezing it and shipping it off to the Arctic in 1958), youâre gonna have to use your noodle here.
Ask Lemmy for help, and he might be able to offer guidance or moral support. Or at least a killer bass line.
A third destination will be Dodger Stadium. Weâre in dire need of gas, since thereâs no guarantee at all weâll be able to access the barrels in the Citadelâs basement, so if anyone wants or needs a no-brainer mission, they can take a siphon hose and as many gas cans as they can carry to the stadium parking lot and start suckinâ. See how many gallons you can collect before you draw unwanted attention to yourself, and see how many gallons you can avoid spilling on your headlong flight back to the convoy!
But thereâs another reason to hit the stadium. The parking lot is full because the bombs fell in the middle of a ballgame. The 50,000 shambling skeletons therein are radioactive bat-wielding ghouls (since Chelsea happened to start her Little War on Fan Appreciation Bat Night), and one of them carries something of interest. Starkâs aide-de-camp, Ms. Potts, was in attendance, seated in the Stark Industries luxury box, passed out after a regrettable overindulgence in Dodger Dogs and Blue Moon beer.
So anyway, she missed Starkâs frantic texts to hurry back to the Helicarrier, the bombs are on the way, where the hell areya? And in her jeans pocket, her shambling corpse carries the key to the Arkâs glovebox, wherein lies the emergency release handle to the galley door. Itâll be a long, hungry flight to Mars if we canât get the galley open, with nary a Dodger Dog between us. So duck that bat and grab that key. The radioactive ghouls are sensitive to nonradioactive people, so if any of you happen to have been irradiated at some point, that would confer a distinct advantage.
Oh, look. Thereâs the East L.A. branch of Fleetwood MacChanics. With the TCB connection to the home office down, maybe they havenât heard that weâre personae non grata to Fleetwood. With any luck, theyâll do business with us.
Anyone got plates to spend?
Mission One: Who You Gonna Call?
Penetrate the zombie hordes of the Westside and rescue Billy and Brian from their besieged home. Bring them back to the Ark to see if they can help infiltrate the Haunted Citadel.
Mission Costs: Gas. Round Trip, 40 miles. Scouts will use 1 gallon, Escorts 2 gallons, Mules and Mechanics 4 gallons. Also, youâll need a new hat. Hats are de rigueur on the Westside this season. Cop a classy chapeau at Fleetwood MacChanics to improve your odds of success.
Risks: A few hundred zombies, as well as a couple of Raiders per Driver. Weirdly, these Westsiders are still smitten with fame, even after all theyâve been through, and word of your exploits has reached them. Those of you with high MaxHP will attract⌠well, autograph seekers. And theyâre likely to want more than an autograph. The less-fabled among you may have an easier time sneaking through the rabble.
Mission Two: Overnight Sensation
2A: Overkill (Tower Sunset)
2B: Killed By Death (Amoeba Records)
Find Lemmy at the Roxy. Tell him your preference as to which record store you want to hit to obtain the Voyager record. Dice roll determines whether he helps you or throws you to the wolves. High EN will help your chances (he appreciates a competent engineer), and sufficiently high LK might help you roll the Ace of Spades: he packs up his Rickenbacker bass and rides shotgun in your vehicle, adding +8FP and +6LK though cutting your fuel economy in half and annoying Mechanics to the point where they can only fix up to 50% of your MaxHP on the next Repair visit (junkyard mechanics unaffected).
Mission Costs: Gas. Round Trip, 40 miles. Scouts will use 1 gallon, Escorts 2 gallons, Mules and Mechanics 4 gallons. Also, youâll need a new hat. Hats are de rigueur on the Westside this season. Cop a classy chapeau at Fleetwood MacChanics to improve your odds of success.
2A Risks: Rock and Roll Zombies. They drink, they drive, they drink some more, they hunger for human flesh, but they canât resist stopping to headbang their fool skulls off if the right song is played. They also appreciate style and flair. Doll up your ride to match the vibe of the Strip circa 1982, and youâll earn their grudging respect and admiration. Just watch out for the groupies. Thatâs not lipstick stuck to their teeth.
2B Risks: The Blob. It creeps and leaps, and glides and slides across the floor, right through the door, and all around the wall, a splotch, a blotch, be careful of the Blob. Beware of the Blob! This is a fairly indeterminate risk, after all, what does one do with a Blob? Maybe try reasoning with it. Offer to trade the Voyager record for a particularly favorite Burt Bacharach single. Intimidate it into retreating by posting a 10-second video of you singing the climax of âLet it Goâ from the Frozen soundtrack, since we know the cold does bother it anyway. The most creative and obviously-successful solution posted will win the record and a 10LP bonus. Particularly lame solutions will be clobbered with Blobbyâs high FP Absorption/Assimilation Attack.
Mission Three: Put Me In, Coach!
Infiltrate Dodger Stadium, duck the bats of the Irradiated Ghouls, and retrieve the Key from Ms. Pottsâ pocket.
Mission Costs: Gas. Round Trip, 20 miles. Scouts will use 0.5 gallon, Escorts 1 gallons, Mules and Mechanics 2 gallons. Also, you should consider a new hat. Hats are not necessary on this side of town, but displaying your team loyalties may help you out once inside the ballpark. Cop a classy chapeau at Fleetwood MacChanics to improve your odds of success.
Risks: About 50,000 Irradiated Ghouls, though youâll only encounter the ones in your section if you move fast (probably a couple dozen). High SP and/or LK will help. There are also 18 Irradiated Ballplayer Ghouls, who are naturally much harder hitters with their bats. One or two may end up in your section. If you yourself happen to be radioactive, people wonât even notice you unless Ms. Potts makes a squawk when you try to swipe her key.
Mission Four: The Fuel on the Hill
Siphon as much gas as you can from the derelict cars in the stadium parking lot. You common hoodlum, you.
Mission Costs: Effectively nothing, since youâll gas up to the brim upon your return, and maybe have surplus fuel to sell as well. If you return.
Risks: Irradiated Parking Lot Security. Theyâre slow and brittle, but dedicated.
Check your shopping, upgrade, and repair options below at Fleetwood MacChanics!
Once you have all your shit tucked in and ready to roll, the Round Five Entry Form is here.