This is a bit off-topic for me here, but I wanted to push out my thoughts on something I was passionate about growing up and found the love again in the present.

I’ve recently started skateboarding again. I posted a Note about my new old-school board back in July. I’ll just leave that there and move into how this Substack post all came about.

I came across a Facebook post in an Over 30 Skaters group that got me thinking.

It was a fake Trivia post with the question: “Whose truck is this?” You can see in the photo above that it was a close-up of a truck, someone pointing specifically at the kingpin, with the nut cranked down so far that three threads were showing. Answers A-F were a list of well-known pros and two options I didn’t think would affect me like they did:

“A. a poser on YouTube” and “F. a poser from Skaters Over 30.”

I wanted to laugh like I would have as a teenager, but I didn’t. Not because I’m above immature humor (because I’m definitely not!), but because it hit me deeper for some reason: Wow, we were really mean as kids!

As the flashbacks washed over me, I thought to myself: Why were we gatekeeping something like skateboarding? Obviously, there are bigger conversations around belonging and identity, but I want to stay with my own experience about here.

Back in the late 80s as a teenager, I wasn’t a great skater. I loved it, but I wasn’t the one landing tons of tricks that made people take notice. Some of my friends were though… a few of them were almost world-class skaters. And back then, when you hung out with dudes that were next-level, we collectively ended up with strong opinions. If someone showed up to where we were skating with a department store board like a Valterra or a Nash from K-Mart: they were a target.

We called them “Posers.”

At my age now, looking back on those times, it all feels pretty ridiculous. And pretty awful, to be honest. We were just dumb kids, but what was the goal there? To protect skateboarding? From who? Kids who were curious? Kids who wanted to feel like a part of something?

And here’s the thing I can’t stop thinking about now: How many people did we push away by trying to police the coolness? And by we, I don’t just mean my friends- I mean kids like us all over the country that thought the same way we did.

How many kids might have stuck with skating, might have loved it, gotten good at it, built a lifelong passion, stayed out of trouble, if we had just let them belong?

Even from a more practical view, from a business standpoint, posers were great for skateboarding. They bought boards. Shoes. Shirts. Hats. They walked into local skate shops and spent money just like anyone else. Did the poser dollars count less?

If more of those kids felt welcomed instead of judged, what would it mean to them today?

I had my own moment with all of this, though I’m pretty sure I didn’t realize it at the time.

One afternoon in the late ’80s, I skated up to a local baseball field with a few of my buddies to watch my younger brother’s little league game. I had recently purchased a Vision Mark Gonzales board that I absolutely loved. I had about five skateboards over the years that I broke or just plain wore out, but this one was my favorite. So my buddies and I skated for a bit, then sat in the bleachers to watch some of the game.

At some point, my board disappeared. Like it was just gone. We looked everywhere, but after about 20 minutes of searching, it was clear that it had been stolen.

I was absolutely crushed.

And that was it for me. I didn’t have a board anymore, and my parents weren’t about to drop hundreds of dollars on a new setup for me. It would’ve taken me months and months of allowance to replace it.

My mom was quick to offer a solution, “Why don’t you just ride your old one in the garage and ask for a new one for Christmas?”

I remember being almost offended. The only board in the garage was old (my Lester Kasai above!) Beat up! Outdated! And worst of all… it might make me look like a poser!

So instead of skating my old, old board for the rest of the summer and fall… I quit. I walked away from something I loved because I was worried about how I looked now riding an old board from middle school. Thinking back, this is crazy to me!

A few years later, after I had been making money at a minimum wage job for a while, the itch came back. I bought a new setup. It was definitely one I was proud of: a Santa Monica Airlines Jim Thiebaud Superhero deck:

I called up my one buddy (who was one of the best skaters in our area) and we headed to one of the skate parks to skate all day. I was stoked.

I remember that session vividly. He was landing tricks I’d never even seen before. Kickflips had become a thing while I was gone and Mark was landing them like they were nothing. Everything felt faster, more technical, and just more evolved from the last time I skated.

Skateboarding moved on without me. The tricks I knew were outdated. My style felt stuck in the past and I was embarrassed to skate. But here’s the part that stuck with me from that session. Mark, my friend who had always been WAY better than me, was nothing but encouraging. He was a good friend, so that’s to be expected, right?

He didn’t judge. He wasn’t gatekeeping. He just kept telling me to keep going, you’ll get it! That mattered more than I understood at the time.

Fast forward to now. I’m 53 years old, and I recently bought a skateboard again (the Gonzales reissue deck above!)

I set it up like I had it back in the day. The first time I stepped on it, after nearly 35 years, was nothing short of humbling. I felt unstable, rusty, and definitely ridiculous!

But what I felt even more than that was FUN. It was just fun.

So much of being a kid was about wanting or trying to fit in. Wanting to feel like you belonged. Wanting to look cool in the eyes of your friends or the people around you. That feeling drove so many of our decisions back then, whether we realized it or not.

These days? I don’t give a shit if I look cool. I don’t care that I can’t ollie anymore. I don’t care that I probably look really goofy wearing pads. None of that matters. It just feels good to be back on a board cruising again!

What if those kids we called “posers” felt that same spark of fun or love for skateboarding, but lost it because someone told them they didn’t belong?

Now back to that Facebook post. I realized it was there to prove a point.

The answer to whose truck that was? The cranked-down, “poser” way to ride the trucks?

D. Tony Hawk

He rides his trucks super tight to avoid ‘wheel wobble’ on ramps. Tight enough that three threads show.

Yes, that Tony Hawk. The most recognizable skateboarder in the history of the sport.

I’m not sure this needs a moral. Maybe it’s just what comes with getting older: we mellow out, we figure out who we are, we stop trying so hard to prove it. But, back then, we definitely had it wrong all along.

Maybe the people we called “posers” were just beginners, curious or excited about skateboarding and the culture of skateboarding. Maybe they were looking for a getaway, a little bit of freedom, or some fun. And maybe if we let them, they would’ve found it.

Crain rubs his conch shell as he makes his way to the Green Kraken to find Captain Davies. Let’s read the description of this place in the book:

The Green Kraken: If Coral Town had a heart, this would be it. A seedy tavern. Jonesy, the barkeep, is gruff and large enough to prevent a fight. Several important-looking pirates recruit here, including Captain Davies, who has a booth permanently reserved in the back. Gambling, drinking, and plotting are all encouraged.

Crain asks Jonesy which one is Captain Davies and he points toward the back to a booth. Let’s read the description of Captain Davies:

Captain Davies, the pirate boss: Captain of the Eye of Chaos. A sardonic, sea-worn pirate who runs a small but well oiled smuggling operation out of the caves on the west side of the island near Carcass Beach. He and his men can be recruited, or they might try to rob and/or kill the PCs. Probably both. HP: 9, Morale: 9, Leather armor, cutlass & 2 flintlock pistols.

It’s pretty late and if he’s recruiting for a job at dawn, I decided that there wouldn’t be too many pirates lined up waiting for him. He would have most of his crew set at this point. So, I think just a simple Oracle roll will suffice to see if there’s someone with him or not.

Is Davies alone?

Oracle, d8 = 4
NO, BUT… the pirate that’s with him is talking very loudly and Crain picks up bits and pieces of the conversation before Davies dismisses the pirate.

I thought this called for a Sparks table roll to get some hints about what they were talking about, so I rolled on the d66 Sparks table in C&C.

The Pirate’s Code d66 Sparks Table:
d66 = 52: Rescue, Flora, Uncertain

I kind of had an idea right away for these words. So a ‘rescue’ is in order, but Davies is a rotten pirate, so this isn’t a rescue in the traditional sense. Maybe it’s a kidnapping from another crew that has the prize already, or maybe he wants to be first to the ‘rescue’ for nothing more the reward? Let’s take ‘flora’ and make this someone. A noblewoman, faction leader, VIP, etc. and maybe the name or person (or even ‘thing’ I guess!) is coded. I Googled up some tropical flowers and selected “Allamanda.” It sounded more mysterious than the other flowers I saw. Now, ‘uncertainty' is pretty easy here. The uncertainty is the coded name, Allamanda. Does Davies even know who or what Allamanda is? Maybe, maybe not. I think that’s enough to go on. Let’s write up the fiction for the scene:

Crain introduces himself and mentions that Tortuga sent him. He explains that he had a look at the man’s wounds on the docks and, from what he gathered, their crew was already full… and also set on chasing “Allamanda.” Crain suggests that Captain Davies might have use for a skilled doctor and another man in a fight.

Is Davies receptive of that?

Oracle, d8 = 8
YES, AND… he is very accommodating since it sounds like Crain might know something about the Gilded Raven’s plans.

I think since I don’t have any loot, maybe Davies could accommodate with an advance. Does Davies offer money to Crain?

Oracle, d8 = 7
YES.

How many silver pieces?
d8 = 6
6 silver pieces

Rocking with the d8! Let’s smooth the scene out to get a feel for the good Captain and Crain.

I almost forgot to mention that I’ve decided to add a small mechanic: anytime Crain removes his hat and puts it back on, I’ll roll to see if he experiences a vision. It keeps things unpredictable and adds a nice layer of tension. So now, as he doffs his hat and puts it back on his head… it’s time to roll. Let’s just use the Oracle roll for now.

Does Crain experience a vision?
d8 = 3
NO.

Crain watches Davies leave and decides he would do the same… but not before a pint of grog to celebrate!

Pint of Grog: 1s
5 silver pieces left

Crain decides one drink was enough, especially with morning fast approaching. After the kind of day he’d had and, what was likely waiting for him at dawn, he needs proper rest. He pushes himself up from the bar, surrendering his seat to the next soul in need of it.

Time to head to the inn. Let’s see if the night has anything else in store for him on the way.

Roll 1d6 for Night Encounter (Ultimate Solo RPG Toolkit):
1d6 = 5
5 = Nothing happens

Crain spends 4 silver pieces on a night at the inn. Time for some much-deserved shut-eye!

Night at the inn: 4s
1 silver piece left

Next up: Session 3! Until then, fair winds and following seas, matey!

Character Creation
Session 1
Session 2

The Curse of Skeleton Point

After reading through the Curse of Skeleton Point module in the Pirate Borg book, I decided to use the Captain & Crew solo companion rules and just roll up how Melville Crain got to this god-forsaken place. Page 1 of Captain & Crew:

How did you end up here? Choose or roll 1d6:
1d6 = 1: Your crew mutinied against you

I then decided to roll on The Pirate’s Code oracle table in C&C to get a sense of where the rest of my game would go instead of just jumping into something preset.

The Pirate’s Code d66 Sparks Table:
d66 = 24: Drift, Hat, Personal

After sitting with those words for a few minutes and knowing I wanted to lean into something mystical for my playthrough, I decided that there was going to be something mystical with Crain’s hat. The last he knew was that it was taken by his first mate during the mutiny with laughs and cheers from the rest of the crew (This ties in with Crain’s ‘Unfortunate Incidents’ from character creation: A close relative has become your greatest enemy. I’ve adjusted this from a relative to a crewmate, in this case his first mate.) They would then leave him on the docks of Coral Town with only the clothes on his back and his weapons for a fighting chance. Crain would notice the hat drifting in the waves. He was thankful to see it because the hat meant a lot to him. As he shook it out, brushed it off and put it on his head, he was greeted by a vision of his crew and their current whereabouts!

I plan to add more about the history of the hat and the visions as I go, but for now Revenge is Crain’s main motivation!

Crain was left with his clothes and weapons but lost everything else. He’s penniless. It’s night time on the docks at Coral Town. Let’s read the description of this place in the book.

The Docks: A popular place for late night meetings. There are currently d12 vessels docked (not including the Eye of Chaos and the PCs’ ship, if they have one [Nope!])
How many ships are docked this evening?

Ships Docked, d12 = 3
3 ships are docked.

Roll again for ships by name on table: d12 = 12, 7, 6
12 = Scorn Of the West: Very old, well maintained war vessel.
7 = The Royal Dragon: Large, decorated fluyt stolen from a noble family. The figurehead can talk.
6 = Gilded Raven: Frigate. Fast. Well trained crew of deserter marines. Black sails.

Crain begins to devise some plans in his head, maybe a quick loot of a ship, maybe even convince some dock workers to set sail with him in a stolen ship. Let’s see what he can work out here. Is the dock crowded tonight?

Crowd Size Table, d20 = 9
Medium. The usual amount of people you might find in this location.

Four ships and a bit of commotion, might be the perfect setting for a possible heist. Let’s ask some Oracle questions to see how it all goes. The Oracle in C&C is a d8:
1 = NO, AND
2-3 = NO
4 = NO, BUT
5 = YES, BUT
6-7 = YES
8 = YES, AND

Is the Royal Dragon’s crew gone for the evening?

Oracle, d8 = 3
NO.

It seems there’s a bunch of activity on the deck so Crain keeps moving past it. It’s a large vessel, and probably not worth his time and effort. The crew is preoccupied and isn’t interested in a passer-by, so Crain moves on.

Is the Scorn Of the West’s crew gone for the evening?

Oracle, d8 = 1
NO, AND… they don’t take kindly to me snooping around.

This calls for a Difficulty Rating test. Crain is surely not in a position to fight this man, so can he talk himself out of losing his good eye and maybe keep his life with it? I would say this is something of Normal difficulty, as Crain wasn’t doing much of anything and has been polite up to this point.

Normal DR (12) against Crain’s PRESENCE (-1), d20 twice:
d20 = 13 (-1): 12
d20 = 14 (-1): 13
STRONG HIT!

Crain was able to talk his way out of that, but he can’t be too careful here. Still, he needs a ship or some loot, so he might as well continue to push his luck here on the docks. Crain thinks to approach the next vessel differently. He decides to call out to them, all friendly like, as he comes up to the crew.

Is the Gilded Raven’s crew receptive of Crain approaching?

Oracle, d8 = 6
YES.

Crain waves to a crewman. The crewman gives him a nod. Crain takes that as an invitation. Let’s see if we can get a spot on this ship!

Is the Gilded Raven in need of another sailor?

Oracle, d8 = 4
NO, BUT… the crewman tells him where to find Captain Davies.

Let’s roll up this crewman as a named NPC to add some flavor to this. We head to page 124 of Pirate Borg to generate this pirate:

Roll 3d12, Read these tables from A to C. Save the dice.
3d12 = 1, 12, 10
Table A = A rugged individual
Table B = Bloody bandages
Table C = Flintlock pistol
Greatest result is Morale = 12
Lowest result +2 is HP = 3
Whichever table has the highest result determines ARMOR = Table B: -D2 Armor

d66 x 4 to generate two names, a surname and a nickname
45 = Francisco
53 = Alice
42 = Roberts
13 = Turtle

Francisco “Tortuga” Roberts

Okay, so now Crain knows who Captain Davies is AND has a name in case it helps in any way. Still, it might just be easier for Crain to give it one more attempt to join this crew and work the angles until he can exact his revenge. Remember, Crain was somewhat of a doctor years ago…

Would Francisco like Crain to look at his wounds?

Oracle, d8 = 2
NO.

Well, that answers that question!

It looks like Crain has a long night ahead of him at the Green Kraken!

Next up: Session 2! Until then, fair winds and following seas, matey!

Character Creation
Session 1
Session 2

I’m finally starting my Pirate Borg solo session! After my ECO-MOFOS!! playthrough (more of a fiction-only write-up), I wanted to share this one as a traditional playthrough write-up with rolls and subsequent fiction. Many thanks to The Lone Bard, Alone In the Realm, and Lost Ranger for sharing their playthroughs and inspiring me!

Character Creation!

There’s a great Pirate Borg Character Generator online and I had a lot of fun with it, but after a few click throughs, I decided I would let the dice create my pirate!

I turned to Page 27 of Pirate Borg and ran through the character creation prompts:

1. Roll on each of the tables on this page.

d6 Container, d12 Cheap Gear, d12 Fancy Gear:
d6 = 2: bandolier for 6 small-sized items
d12 = 3: 30’ of rope
d12 = 1: compass

2. Roll your ability scores (pg. 28)

Ability Scores: Roll 3d6 and gain modifiers from -3 to +3. STRENGTH, AGILITY, PRESENCE, TOUGHNESS, SPIRIT
STRENGTH = 10: (0)
AGILITY = 9: (0)
PRESENCE = 12: (0)
TOUGHNESS = 7: (-1)
SPIRIT = 8: (-1)

Ugh! All middle rolls so nothing great so far. Oh well, onto the next step.

3. Choose or roll a class (pg. 34-45), which affects the next 3 sub-steps (discussed later.) There are 8 classes: Brute, Rapscallion, Buccaneer, Swashbuckler, Zealot, Sorcerer, Haunted Soul, and optional Tall Tales class (like Merfolk and sentient animals.)

d8 = 4: Swashbuckler

I think if I had to pick, I would’ve picked a Swashbuckler anyway! Now I get to roll for a Fighting Style on the Swashbuckler page:

d6 = 4: Inspiring Leader: Once each combat, roll a d4. Each of your allies may add or subtract that value from any one roll during this combat.

Ability scores adjust due to your class, therefore I gain +1 to Strength, +1 to Agility, -1 to Presence and -1 to Spirit. I adjusted those on my character sheet to reflect the bang-average Swashbuckler I’m creating.

The sub-steps I mentioned earlier are determined by Class: 1. Roll for Hit Points, 2. Roll for Weapon/Clothing/Hat and, 3. Roll for starting Devil’s Luck.

HIT POINTS for Swashbuckler: d10+Toughness = 6(-1): 5. DAMMIT!!

WEAPON: d10 = 6: Cutlass (d6 damage)
CLOTHING: d10 = 10: Conquistador plate (-d6 damage, DR +4 on Agility tests, defense is DR +2. You’ll most likely sink and drown in water)
HAT: d12 = 10: Fancy tricorne

DEVIL’S LUCK: d2 for Swashbuckler class = 1

Those rolls ended up pretty traditional for a Swashbuckler, which is pretty cool. The HP roll isn’t great but the Conquistador plate will help a little. OK, let’s round this PC out…

4. Choose or roll tables on pages 55-61

Background: d100 = 40: Doctor, 2d6 x 10 Silver, medical kit.
Silver pieces = 6 x 10 = 60

Distinctive Flaw: d20 = 11: Cheater

Physical Trademark: d20 = 2: Missing an eye

Idiosyncrasies: d20 = 7: You are afraid of prime numbers larger than 3. d20 rolls of 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, and 19 fill you with superstitious terror.

Unfortunate Incidents & Conditions: d20 = 7: A close relative has become your greatest enemy.

Thing of Importance: d100 = 4: conch shell

Some pretty interesting traits there! Now, last but not least…

5. Name your pirate!

I’m not much for name generators or tables for my PCs in any game, but I use them to give me inspiration and ideas for what I ultimately choose. So I rolled on the Pirate Generator name table on page 125 to get me started.

d66 x 4 to generate two names, a surname and a nickname
35 = Willem
45 = Marie
14 = Williams
41 = Whale

I didn’t love any of them, but ‘Whale’ and this high-seas adventure setting got me thinking to Moby Dick and Herman Melville. I liked ‘Melville’ as a first name. I’ve been reading Ultimate Spider-Man recently and the company Stark/Stane stuck in my head. ‘Stane’ to ‘Crane’… but not like the bird or machine… ‘Crane’ to ‘Crain’ instead…

Melville Crain

Melville Crain will peruse the local dry goods shop for a few essentials before setting sail. He grabs an eye patch to cover his missing eye, two throwing knives for his bandolier and 5 days of dried food.

Starting with 60 silver pieces
- 2 throwing knives (d4 damage): 8s = 16s
- 5 days of dried food: 1s = 5s
- eye patch: ? = 0s
39 silver pieces left

I couldn’t find an eye patch in the book for a price. I’d guess that the clerk was disgusted by my empty eye socket anyway and they threw it in for free. Now to button up the background fiction for Captain Crain…

Melville Crain was once a man of science. He was a ship’s doctor who stitched flesh, set bone, and kept men alive long enough to fight another day. But somewhere between the anatomy table and the gambling table, something in him shifted. He learned quickly that a steady hand with a scalpel translated well to a cutlass, and that men followed confidence far more readily than compassion.

Crain rose not by honesty, but by instinct. A cheater at cards, at dice, and, if truth be told- at life itself. He carved out a reputation as both an inspiring leader and a dangerous one. He speaks like a man worth believing in, even when he shouldn’t be trusted.

Beneath his odd mix of refinement and brutality, one eye studies the world sharply; the other is long gone, taken by circumstances he never explains the same way twice.

Despite his swagger, Crain harbors a peculiar and unshakable terror: prime numbers larger than three. He cannot abide them. Won’t speak them. Won’t count them. He insists there is something wrong with them, something unnatural, and claims it is the true reason for his habit of cheating. The numbers, he says, cannot be trusted… so why should he be?

He keeps a small conch shell tucked into his bandolier at all times. No bigger than half a dozen centimeters, he claims it once saved his life. Others say he listens to it when he thinks no one is watching, tilting it ever so slightly, as though the sea itself is whispering secrets meant only for him.

Some swear they’ve seen him go still in those moments after with his head cocked and breath held, like a man receiving instructions.

And when he smiles after… it’s never a good sign for anyone but him.

Next up: Session 1! Until then, fair winds and following seas, matey!

I set out to design a fiction-first/rules-light, hard-boiled crime solo RPG. Much of what I could find out there didn’t really scratch the itch for me. They were either not the exact genre (mostly noir mixed with sci-fi or fantasy) or too crunchy/rules-heavy for my liking. I wanted The Big Sleep mixed with The Maltese Falcon mixed with Double Indemnity. I came up with a solo game called City Without Mercy. The game drops you into the rainy streets of a 1930-40s noir metropolis where you play a private detective chasing fragmented truths amid deception, deceit and danger. Check out the work-in-progress Zine HERE.

Narrative-First, Rules-Light Design

At its core, City Without Mercy embraces “fiction-first.” I seem to gravitate to fiction-first games as a solo player. The rules and procedures guide you through investigating scenes, clue gathering, and suspect interactions, but never dictate exactly how you tell your story. Instead, the game frames the detective’s process as an interpretation of collecting fragmented clues, weighing motives, sensing contradictions… all while time and heat tick upwards, building tension.

Game Start & Case File Set-Up

After a short introduction paragraph about someone coming into your office on that fateful, rainy night- you build a Case File. You create a Victim, Their Secret, Suspects, Their Relationships and a Pressure Point. Once your Case File is laid out, you are encouraged to write the narrative to set the tone for the rest of your game/story.

Procedure and Game Loop

The game procedure and pressure tracks are a mix of bits from a few systems like Blades In the Dark and Gumshoe. I’ve landed on breaking down “turns” into a cycle of Scenes where you follow the five steps below:

1. Frame the Scene: Set the location, characters, and your investigative goal.

2. Choose your approach: Whether to play it straight, shady, or forceful- this choice influences outcomes and risks.

3. Roll for Scene Proficiency: A simple d6 roll indicates if you succeed cleanly, face complications, or achieve mixed results (with secondary choices for Complication and Mixed.)

4. Generate Clues: Using broad d6 tables or more detailed d100 tables, you receive two Clues per Scene: one ‘Clean’ (objective) Clue and one ‘Dirty’ (subjective or misleading) Clue.

5. Interpret the Scene: This is where the fiction takes over. You weave all of the above into the scene narrative.

This loop repeats, as you track Heat and advance Time for each Scene, until you decide to declare a final theory or you reach the deadline (Heat or Time reaches 5.) Once you declare a Final Theory, you roll and narrate the outcome of your case.

Narrative Heavy or Streamlined

I’ve played this through tons of times. Obviously, most of my plays have leaned towards heavy narrative. To save time and maximize the number of playthroughs I’ve done, I would talk-to-text my narrations into Google Docs. Players who like this style of immersive storytelling in their solo games will find plenty of areas to expand scenes with rich narrative flourishes. I suggest in the rules to create a Case Web or something like an Evidence Board with pins, links and notes between each suspect. In one playthrough, I even went as far as framing my narrative as if the detective was giving a Sam Spade-like monologue after each scene.

I realize that everyone doesn’t play like that or want to play like that, so I ran some sessions more streamlined and mechanical. I focused on the rolls and clues alone, using only bullet points and a simple case web with names, single words and short notes. I felt like the tables and simple dice rolls provided enough structure and randomness for tension without a ton of extra narration. But this is an area where I’m lacking for playtesting- I’m just not that good at it! By Scene 5, I have to really focus to not add so many flourishes and narrative enhancements. It seems I’m always having the detective light another cigarette and flipping his collar up as he goes into the night. LOL.

Minimal Mechanics On Purpose

As mentioned throughout, the mechanical system is intentionally minimal. It relies on d6 rolls for scene success and d100 tables for in-depth clue and pressure point selection. My intention was to allow these simple elements to fuel a complex, layered narrative.

The Final Theory phase was my most difficult decision. I worked and reworked it many times, from statistical outcome rolls to interpretive modifiers, but I finally settled on the decision of three outcomes: Misread the Case, Partial Truth or Clean Solution using a single d6 plus modifiers gained objectively. I wanted to mirror the genre’s ambiguity, favoring partial truths over clear solutions and this played the best for me. So if you want to “win the game” by solving the case, this game and genre might not be for you. If you embrace noir’s messiness and ambiguity, you’ll understand that nothing is ever black and white!

Strengths and Limitations

Strengths:

• Facilitates narrative creativity without getting bogged down in rules.

• Captures noir ambiguity and tension through layered clues and pressure tracks.

• Almost limitless solutions. Different players would likely reach very different conclusions from the same case file.

Limitations:

• The straightforward dice mechanics and limited number of rolls might feel too light for players seeking a more complex strategy.

• The final resolution can sometimes feel abrupt given it’s just a d6 roll plus modifiers.

• Reliant on player-driven interpretation, which might challenge those preferring structured puzzle-solving.

Tying It All Together

Running multiple playthroughs, I think that City Without Mercy is adept at connecting clues, suspects, and pressure points into strong, noir-flavored tales. Each case unfolded differently with the shifting web of relationships and secrets keeping each mystery fresh.

Because of its simplicity, it really engaged my storytelling instincts. The pressure of rising Heat and Time deadlines adds real stakes, making me want to force answers from the suspects. Even in the bullet pointed playthrough runs with minimal narration, I still experienced interesting dilemmas and ambiguous truths true to the genre.

I’m sure I’m biased here, but I like what City Without Mercy offers. It satisfies my urge for a noir mystery solo RPG. I’d love to hear your thoughts and constructive criticism if you happen to read through it and especially if you play it!

Let me know your thoughts, what you like and don’t like about it, where it succeeds or fails, etc. Happy Gaming!

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CHAPTER 16: THE LAST DOOR OUT

The shot hit Siren’s side. Not a clean hit, not deep enough to drop her, but not something you just shrug off either. Blood was already soaking through her clothes and spreading.

“I’m fine,” she said.

She wasn’t. I dropped to my knees anyway, digging through my pack for anything useful. Didn’t find much. It seems I never do when it matters. Bob stepped in without a word and tore a long strip from his shirt.

“Here,” he said, as he handed it to me.

I pressed it to the wound. Siren sucked in a breath but didn’t complain. She didn’t even really flinch that much. She just watched me work.

“Hold that there for a second,” I said. She did.

Bob crouched beside her, a little unsure for a second, then smiled.

“I’m Bob,” he said.

“Siren,” she replied.

They shared a quick, quiet smile like they already understood each other. Like they’d been on the same path for more than the five hectic minutes spent together. Bob rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said. “Really.”

She gave a small nod with a tiny smile. “Don’t make it a habit.”

I tightened the wrap as best I could.

“That should hold for now,” I muttered.

Siren nodded. “It’s good enough.”

I stood up and Bob stepped forward and pulled me into a hug. Hard.

“Thanks for coming, brother,” he said into my shoulder. “I knew I could count on you.”

I didn’t say anything at first. I just gave him a firm clap on the back.

“Yeah,” I said. “You always could.”

He pulled back, and whatever relief was there for a moment, didn’t last.

“It’s bad, Brax,” he said. “It’s real bad.”

The way he said it made my stomach drop.

“How bad?” I asked.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once in the tight space.

“They’re not just holding ground here,” he said. “They’re planning something bigger. I stumbled onto it while I was working… schematics and power requirements that don’t make sense unless…”

He stopped.

“Unless what?” Siren pressed.

Bob looked at both of us.

“They want to wipe it,” he said. “Not just this place. Everything. Start over clean.”

“Nuke it? Don’t these guys always talk big like that?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Yeah, but this isn’t talk,” he said. “This isn’t just somethin’ to scare people. They’re building toward it. That’s why they have us all work here. I found out. They found out I knew something. I held them off, jerked them around like I was a stupid Punk, but they persisted. I wasn’t gonna make it much longer.”

I felt something cold settle in me. Siren exhaled slow. “Then we definitely can’t stay here.”

“Nope,” I said. “We move.”

I looked at the droid. “So let’s make this thing worth the trouble.”

Siren pushed herself up against the wall, wincing but steady.

“Gimme the logic card,” she said, gesturing toward the back panel. “Bob, grab it.”

He moved quick, popping the housing open and pulling the small pcb free. He handed it to her.

She flipped the dipswitches fast, fingers moving like muscle memory.

“Put this back in and stand in front of it,” she told him.

Bob nodded and slid the card back in place and closed the panel. The droid’s optics flickered on. A soft scan passed over him.

“Designation required,” it said in that old-world, flat tone. Bob said a few words to the robot, as it went through its checks.

“Designation accepted,” the droid confirmed.

“It’s all yours now,” Siren said. Bob stared at her for half a second, then smiled.

“Rusty,” he said, looking back at the droid.

The droid paused as Bob chuckled under his breath.

“Alright, Rusty,” he said, stepping a little closer. “These two? Braxton and Siren. They saved my life.”

He pointed at us.

“You protect them the same as you protect me. Got it?”

The droid’s head tilted slightly.

“Acknowledged.”

Siren pushed off the wall again.

“We need to move,” she said.

I glanced at her. “You sure?”

“Yes,” she snapped. Then softer, “Don’t worry about me.”

I didn’t like it, but I didn’t argue. We had to get going, like right now.

“Where does this tunnel go?” I asked Bob.

That grin came back. The one that meant a story was coming.

“Oh, you’re gonna like this,” he said.

He moved to the far wall, popped another hidden panel.

“This hole runs straight to the northeast wall,” he said. “Outside the Stronghold. Dumps us right into the woods. They have a routine patrol, but no surveillance back there. They don’t need it. It’s right up against the tree line.”

He chuckled and then looked back at us.

“We walk out clean.”

I nodded. “Then let’s go.”

It was tight. Too tight for comfort, especially with Rusty squeezing through behind us. His metal scraped against the walls at times and it sounded so loud that I thought the whole compound would be on top of us.

But we made it. Bob eased the final panel open just enough to peek through and make sure there were no patrols. Then he slipped out. I followed. Then Siren. Then Rusty. The fresh air was intoxicating after the stink of that fucking place.

We moved fast, putting distance between us and New Ashington before I finally spoke.

“We need to get her help,” I said.

Bob nodded. “I know someone. Not too much further.”

We kept moving through the trees. After a bit, Bob glanced over at me.

“Hey,” he said. “Sorry about that suit I promised you. It’s in my locker back there.”

I snorted. “Yeah, I’m real broken up about it.”

He laughed.

“I’m just glad we got you out, Buddy,” I added.

“Me too,” he said.

We broke through into a clearing and stopped. Two large ants… giant ants. Ant people. Whatever you call the weird, human-like ant things these days. Thick bodies, armed, and moving meticulously as they gathered whatever passed as supplies to them.

Bob leaned closer.

“I heard their nectar,” he whispered. “It can help her.”

Siren shook her head immediately.

“No,” she said. “No one is killing something for me.”

“We don’t have to,” I said. “We just need to get past them.”

We started moving carefully and almost made it, when one of them noticed. Its head lifted with antennae twitching. Then it started toward us. Fast.

“Rusty,” Bob said calmly. “Give it a warning.”

The droid stepped forward. Arm raised. A series of precise bursts fired into the ground centimeters in front of the creature. The dirt kicked up hard and the ant froze. It lifted its antennae high, like it was trying to understand what just happened. Then it chirped, sharp and quick, to the other one. Both of them turned and scattered.

Bob grinned. “Good boy.”

Rusty lowered its arm.

“Threat redirected.”

“Yep,” Bob said. “Thanks Rusty.”

We moved again. Siren was really slowing now. She was trying to hide it, but I could see it.

“We’re almost there,” Bob said. “My bunker’s tied into an old sewer complex. It’s safe.”

We pushed through the last stretch and saw the entrance.

“There,” Bob said, pointing.

We got her inside. The bunker felt different. It was quiet, but alive in a different way.

“Let’s go straight to Nemo,” Bob said. “He’ll fix you right up.”

We found him quick. He was an older man, calm and precise. The kind of person who didn’t waste movements. Everything he did or said seemed to have a purpose.

Siren gingerly sat on the table and lifted her shirt without hesitation. Nemo went to work.

I dropped into a chair nearby. Everything caught up all at once: Bob’s message, the journey, the Mindbloom, the trees, the doom seer, the rain, Crane and Solar, the NEWBATs, the Stronghold, the run, the fight. The escape.

Bob glanced over at me and grinned. He was a funny Punk. And a good friend. Maybe I needed people after all… maybe I needed these people.

Nemo worked in silence for a moment, then spoke.

“NEWBAT, eh?” he said to Siren, noticing her patch.

She nodded slightly. He gave a small hum.

“I just treated one of yours a few days ago,” he said. “Shoulder wound.”

Siren’s eyes flicked toward him.

“Oh yeah?” she asked.

Nemo nodded, thinking.

“Ah… what was his name…”

A beat.

“Jester, I think?”

CHAPTER 16: THE SPARK

Check out ECO MOFOS!! and more fun and games from the Copy/Paste Co-op Team!

In my last couple of posts about my Solo RPG experience, I’ve been talking about how my sessions helped me with my storytelling and how my past experiences have influenced my first few months of playing. In that short amount of time playing solo and from following some great solo players here on Substack like , , , , and (to name a few!) I’ve kind of stitched together bits of what they do and what I do into something that works for me.

Again, I’m new to playing solo! So this information is probably far from the first time it’s been articulated. But, if you’re a new solo player, I hope something here helps you. If you’re a veteran solo player, please let me know your thoughts in the comments!

1. Mark Your Turns

Physically separate moments in your session... and not just with a space. A line, a flourish, a symbol, a horizontal sword, a laser beam across the page; anything visual that forces you to pause and recognize that something just happened.

This was the first real change I made, and it sounds almost too simple to matter, but it actually did for me. When I started, everything kind of blended together. I’d roll, interpret, leave a space, move on and maybe mark the next step with a circled number, but there really wasn’t much more than that to show when something began or ended. Once I started marking turns, even with something as simple as a starburst in the middle with a horizontal line on each side, it created an interesting pause that was easily recognizable. If I looked back, it was a chance to acknowledge that something between those turn breaks mattered.

2. Write One Sentence More Than You Think You Should

Instead of stopping at a quick note or a bullet point, add one full sentence. Put some cinematic flair into it and let the moment breathe just a little longer.

When I started, I would write almost long-form. Every session for me was journaling game play. Then I thought maybe I was writing way too much and moved to just jotting things down quickly just to keep the session moving with bullet points or sentence fragments. Basically, just enough to remember what happened.

But when I stepped in between those two extremes and added just one full sentence, or one more sentence- something changed. That extra sentence often became the bridge between “here’s what happened” and “can you believe that happened?” It helped me when I looked back between sessions to jog my memory just a bit more than the bullet point style notes did. And I also didn’t have to sift through my long-form writing to see where I was and what was going on in my campaign.

In the moment, it gave me the opportunity to really visualize what just transpired. And later, looking back, it gave me more for the overall story to start taking shape.

3. Sketch & Draw

This was probably the biggest one for me. Listen, it doesn’t have to be good. A room layout, a stick figure scene, a cherished item you found during the round, etc. The act of drawing makes the moment feel more real in a way rolling alone doesn’t.

Now, I used to draw all the time growing up. I even majored in graphic design before the internet existed. But I hadn’t really kept up with drawing for over 30 years. So when I saw those beautifully detailed journals and play sessions here on Substack, I hesitated. I didn’t want to “ruin” my pages with crappy art of mine that felt amateurish compared to what I was seeing from the talented crew on here. But then I said, “what the hell” and tried it anyway!

It wasn’t anything detailed or elaborate at first- just simple room layouts, a single weapon, a treasure chest, etc. Then I started to take a few more chances. I erased A LOT! I feel that my drawing muscle will eventually come back but, until it does, I’ve been pulling up images to draw from. For example, I googled “giant centipede dnd” on my phone and found this one:

I liked it and began sketching it to where I ended up with this:

This one small drawing made everything feel more complete. I even found that ideas started forming while I was drawing. Connections I wouldn’t have made if I had just rolled and moved on.

I want to stress this: It doesn’t have to be good! My one buddy has a way of drawing these interesting stick figures. I could imagine his entire play session page littered with them. And it would be cool.

4. Sit With the Result Before Moving On

This is directly related to #3 and a little to #2. Just don’t immediately roll again. Look at what just happened and ask: what does this mean? This might be the hardest one, especially if you’re used to keeping momentum.

There’s a strong pull in solo RPGs to keep going. To resolve the next thing. To see what happens next. To get to the end. Paul Walker on his Rolling Alone podcast discussed this:

We often suffer from a weird obsession with “finishing,” as if the only value in a game is found in the “Game Over” screen or the final scoring phase. While that might have been the reality when we were playing old arcade games, it does not need to be the rule for the solo RPG hobby.

Like Paul mentioned, I’ve found that when you resist that need to plow forward for just a moment, pause after a result and actually sit with it… that’s when the ideas start popping into my head. I reflect on what just happened, my sketches, why it matters and how the outcome could influence the next turn or even the overall game.

The pause (writing the extra sentence or two, drawing something) is where the interpretation begins to happen. It’s where the game starts turning into something more than a sequence of rolls and outcomes.

5. Let One Detail Matter More Than It Should

Pick something small like a name, a symbol, a throwaway idea, etc. and treat it like it’s important. See where it leads!

This is probably my favorite one because it’s almost that you didn’t see it coming. In a recent session of White Box Dungeon Adventures, I named the dungeon The Starved Catacombs. That name came from a random word my son said in passing while I was prepping (I have two sons in their late teens/early twenties and they’re always “starving.” LOL!)

‘Starved.’ It could’ve been just a name, a random choice of any arbitrary word. But we’re creative solo players, are we not? I didn’t force it, but I decided that ‘starved’ would be very important to my game. I let it sit there as I fleshed out the drawn title and eventually, the meaning started to form in my head. And I was excited where it might take my game as I play through it.

Not every detail needs to be equal. Sometimes, the story shows up when you decide that this one thing matters more than it probably should. Now that ‘starved’ means something in the catacombs my group is exploring, it’s becoming way more interesting to me and I can’t wait to see where it leads them!

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None of this is rocket science. None of these are complicated. Much of it is common sense. And, yes, this solo play style isn’t for everyone. But it’s completely changed how solo RPGs feel for me. It has slowed everything down to a place that I like. I don’t feel I have to rush through to the end and it’s made my sessions more comprehensive and enjoyable for me.

Let me know your thoughts, your solo play style, what you like and don’t like about my list! Happy Gaming!

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Check out my story, Echo In the Machine: A tale rolled from ECO MOFOS!!

CHAPTER 16: THE SPARK

I kept my eyes on Bob.

At first, it looked like nerves. Hands moving too fast. His constant dropping of tools. Then I saw it. He wasn’t fumbling. He was stalling. It was sabotage.

I leaned just enough toward Siren.

“He’s not panicking,” I whispered. “He’s setting something up.”

She didn’t look at me. “You sure?”

Bob’s hand slipped again. A spark jumped.

Then… just for a half-second, he glanced up. And winked. It was quick and easy to miss, but not for me. I felt something shift in my chest.

“That’s it,” I said under my breath. “That’s our opening.”

Siren’s voice dropped low. “What do you need?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Install that chip and get that thing alive.”

“When?” she asked.

I watched Bob’s hands move faster.

“Now.”

It started small. Just a tiny pop. Then a spark. Then a sputter. Then Bob’s bench erupted. Sparks spit outward in a violent spray, followed by a sharp crack and a bloom of flame that lit up his station.

“Shit!” one of the guards barked.

Two of them rushed over immediately, weapons lowering as they tried to assess the problem.

Bob stumbled back, wide-eyed, playing it up. “I… I don’t know what…!”

Another guard grabbed a fire extinguisher and jogged toward the flames. Someone else started shouting orders, waving a rifle like that would fix everything.

“Back to work! Move!”

Minx’s head snapped up and she saw it.

Then she started talking loud and fast, with a bunch of nonsense. Complaining. Arguing. Drawing attention. Her friends picked up on it instantly. Voices began layering over other voices, louder and louder. It was noise and confusion. It was our cover.

Siren already had the panel open and the chip in. Her hands were fast and steady.

“Almost… just a reboot” she muttered.

I kept my eyes up watching Bob and the whole ruckus.

Then River moved. He didn’t look at us. He looked at Bob. And just like that, he knew. His hand went to his comm as he started toward the scene.

“Converge on that station,” he said flatly.

Six guards turned at once and moved cautiously with their weapons up, pointed at Bob. The noise suddenly dropped out of the room.

Bob froze. And this time, that look on his face… that wasn’t an act.

“Brax…” Siren said quietly.

I didn’t answer, I was already moving. She pressed something into my hand.

Ole’ Sixey.

Warm. Familiar. Right where it belonged.

Then…

CLICK!

The droid came alive. A low hiss rolled out from its core, rising fast into something meaner and heavier.

For a millisecond, nobody moved. Then it raised its arms as the plating shifted and two compartments opened. Pulse cannons slid into place with a mechanical snap.

“No way,” I breathed.

It rose from the cart and opened fire.

Not at the guards, but near them. Controlled bursts slammed above their heads, into the walls, the edges of cover. Enough to make every guard drop or scatter and give Bob the opening he needed.

“MOVE!” I shouted.

Bob didn’t hesitate. He ran and so did we. The guards regrouped, recovered and began firing at us as we crossed the workshop.

Siren plowed through the door first, slamming it open. Bob was running for the door as the droid pivoted, firing again and herding the guards back, buying us more time.

Their rifle fire answered, clean and deadly. Rounds tore through the space around us. One of Minx’s people went down hard, clutching their shoulder. Minx made it three more steps before her leg gave out from a shot through her calf. She hit the ground with a loud cry that cut through everything. Our eyes met but she knew.

“GO!” she screamed. “Don’t stop!”

I wanted to. But I knew I couldn’t. I turned and ran.

One guard broke through the chaos, lining up on Bob. I raised Ole’ Sixey and fired once. The shot hit clean and dropped him. I didn’t slow down.

“C’mon, rust bucket!” Siren yelled.

The droid fell in behind us, still firing in controlled bursts, forcing space between us and them. We hit the corridor at full speed and didn’t stop. We couldn’t. If we slowed down, the whole Stronghold would be on top of us.

“Left!” Bob shouted, already turning. We followed through another corridor. Then another. Then he came to a stop at a non-descript wall panel and reached his whole arm through a tiny crack and popped something open.

“In here!”

It was a narrow passage, dark and hidden. We piled inside. He closed the panel behind us and secured the metal hinge.

For a second, no one spoke. The silence rang loud in my head. Everyone was breathing hard and fast, but we were alive.

The droid stood still, systems humming low now. Waiting at attention.

I leaned back against the metal and let everything catch up to me all at once.

“Some opening, huh?” I muttered.

Bob gave a shaky laugh, but it didn’t hold. His hands were still trembling. Not from the run, but from everything else. He was in deep trouble.

Siren sank down beside the wall.

“We’re not in the clear,” she said. “They’ll keep sweeping.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We should keep moving.”

Bob nodded. “Let’s rest for a minute. They don’t know about this hole. Not many do.”

Good. We could take a few minutes to rest and get our wits about us. Then I looked at Siren again. Really looked.

“You’re hit!”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

The blood said otherwise.

CHAPTER 15: ABOUT TO BREAK | CHAPTER 17 - THE LAST DOOR OUT

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CHAPTER 15: ABOUT TO BREAK

Siren opened the next door with a hard jerk, like it didn’t want to let us through. What waited on the other side made me wish it hadn’t.

Two soldiers had two Wasters tied to chairs against the far wall. Their heads were slumped and hands were bound. They weren’t dead, but not far from it either. I slowed without meaning to.

“Keep moving,” Siren muttered under her breath.

One of the soldiers turned toward us with a stern look on its face. The motion was sharp and mechanical, almost machine-like. It noticed Siren’s jumpsuit and everything about it softened.

“Apologies for the inconvenience,” it said, voice flat but polite in a way that didn’t sit right. “You’re authorized personnel. Please proceed.”

It stepped aside and even reached for the door… and held it open for us. I didn’t look at the Wasters again as we passed. That told me everything about this place that I already knew.

As we approached the shop, I could already tell this one was definitely different. Siren’s shop had noise. Movement. Chaos. This one had order. The stations were tidy. Lines were straight. Guards were posted where guards were supposed to be. No one wandered. No one slacked. Everything felt tighter.

I began to say something to Siren but she was already stepping up to the intake guard.

“We have a transfer,” she said, nodding toward the cart. “Zero sent us. He tagged it and said to bring it here.”

The guard didn’t even glance at her first. His eyes went straight to the droid.

“Is the droid operational?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “It’s dead weight.”

That was the wrong answer.

He shook his head. “I can’t clear it without supervisor authorization.”

He tapped his comm. “Sir, I need you at intake.”

A few seconds later, his superior walked over like he already knew we were a problem. He was older and sharper. The kind of guy who didn’t waste time helping Punks or pretending things were fine.

“What’ve we got here?” he asked.

“She’s claiming referral from Zero,” the guard said. “It’s logged as a non-operational unit.”

The officer didn’t answer. He stepped up to the cart, took his wand and scanned the droid carefully. Then he turned it on us. A thin line of light dragged over my chest. And then over Siren. I kept my breathing steady. Luckily, Ole’ Sixey stayed quiet in an auxiliary compartment in the droid. He lowered the scanner and tapped his comm.

“Come in, Zero. This is River. Transfer verification required,” he said.

Static. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. River’s jaw tightened with frustration.

He turned to the guard. “Go verify with the front shop.”

The guard nodded and moved out quickly.

River looked back at us. “Hold right here,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion. He gestured to the right, just inside the entrance. “In the holding area.”

I didn’t like the way he said it, but we moved anyway.

I counted nine guards inside, spaced out in a planned formation. Patrolling and watching. Not in an aggressive way, just way more attentive than Siren’s shop. I rolled the cart over to where River instructed us to wait. Then I saw him.

Bob.

Across the shop floor, he was working. But it seemed too fast. His hands moved like they were trying to outrun something. Tools clattered. Parts shifted. He wasn’t focused, he was scrambling and jumpy.

“Is that him?” Siren asked quietly, as she noticed my directional stare.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s him.”

He didn’t see us. If he did, he didn’t react… which was worse. Minx did. She glanced up from her station, spotted us immediately and gave the smallest shake of her head. It was like, “Not now. Bad time.”

My chest tightened and Siren’s mood also seemed to change. Siren leaned in to me just enough to keep it quiet.

“This is bad. Something’s going on,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Got that feeling.”

I glanced around and did the calculations in my head. Guards. Positions. Angles. The door on the far wall was labeled ‘Exit.’ It was all too much, but what options did we have?

“I think we could get through,” I said.

She didn’t even look at me. “Not clean,” she said. “We’d lose people.”

That slowed me down.

“Who can we count on?” I asked.

“Me, you,” she said. “Minx.”

She nodded toward the floor.

“Two or three more of hers. Maybe.”

“And Bob,” she hesitated. “...if he’s still with us.”

I looked at him again. He dropped a tool, flinching and fidgeting.

“Something’s wrong, but Bob is with us. What about the rest of the workers?” I asked.

“Burners,” she said. “Wasters on a fix. They work, they get dosed, then they disappear.”

I thought about the room we just walked through. The chairs with the two tied up. We didn’t want to end up like that. If the guard came back and River decided to nix it, we were next.

“What now, Brax?” Siren murmured.

I didn’t answer right away. I went back to calculating our odds. The timing, distance to Bob, distance to the far exit. Because the truth was, this wasn’t about the droid anymore. Something bigger had its hooks in this place. And if Bob was shaking like that… he knew it too. I exhaled slowly.

“We wait,” I said.

“For what?” she asked.

I watched Bob fumble another tool. “For an opening,” I said quietly.

She frowned. “What kind of opening?”

I shook my head. “Don’t know yet.” I kept my eyes on Bob. “But I’ll know it when I see it.”

CHAPTER 14: DEAD WEIGHT | CHAPTER 16 - THE SPARK

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CHAPTER 14: DEAD WEIGHT

Four hours.

That’s how long it took. Four goddamn hours of stripped wiring, broken circuits, and dented panels that didn’t want to fit back where they came from. Four hours of Siren hunched over the droid with Toad beside her, tools scattered across the bench. Sparks came and went. So did the patience. I had to give them credit. I would’ve given up an hour in.

But I stayed where I was told. Leaning against the scrap pile, arms folded, shifting in place, sitting down, standing up again. Every now and then I’d glance over.

Siren worked like she could see through the metal. Her hands were quick with no wasted movement. Toad, on the other hand, looked like he hated every second of it, but he kept up. He passed her tools and held things steady, grumbling under his breath like it helped the process.

“Don’t force it!” Siren exclaimed at one point.

“I ain’t!” Toad shot back. “Yeah, alright, maybe a little.”

Siren gave him a look. The control board snapped back into place with a dull click. Silence followed… just for a second, then Siren leaned in. She checked something deeper inside the chassis. Her fingers hovered, then adjusted a connector no bigger than a fingernail.

“Try it now,” she said.

Toad flipped a dipswitch on the exposed underside of the main board. A low hum answered. It wasn’t loud enough to draw attention, but it definitely was alive. I straightened just a little without meaning to. Siren didn’t react. She just listened and watched. Almost clocking something in her head.

“OK, diags only,” she said quietly. “Do not wake it up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Toad muttered.

Lights flickered faint inside the droid’s housing, barely visible through the seams. Siren tracked it all, reading the thing like it was talking to her. A few more double-checks and then she exhaled.

“It’ll work.”

Toad stepped back, wiping his hands on his shirt. “Told you it would.”

“You said it was junk!” she shot back.

He shrugged. “Yeah, well… junk that works is still junk.”

Siren smirked, just a little. Then she stood, rolling her shoulders like she’d been hunched over for way too long.

I pushed off the wall and walked over. “It works, yeah? Let’s get it going then!”

She shook her head. “No. Not here. Not like this.”

Her eyes moved briefly to the Corpos scattered through the shop.

“Too many eyes here to start this up. They’ll take it and you’ll actually get rocksalt in return,” she said quietly.

That was enough for me.

“Then what?” I asked, as Siren’s fingers worked to pull a small chip from the droid’s head unit and tuck it in her pocket.

She nodded toward the cart. “We load it back in and move it. Act like it’s still dead.”

Toad gave the droid one last look, then kicked the wheel of the cart lightly.

“Congratulations,” he muttered. “You’re officially scrap again.”

“Thanks Toad. You’re a sweetheart,” Siren said.

Toad nodded, almost pleased with himself.

We didn’t rush, even under the time crunch. That would’ve been the mistake. Siren took the lead. I kept my hands on the cart, pushing steady. The droid didn’t make a sound. Nothing to give it away.

The checkpoint at the exit looked unremarkable. A Corpo behind a metal desk looking bored like he’d been there all day and planned to be there all night. He looked up when we rolled over. His eyes landed on Siren first.

“Well, hey,” he said, straightening up. “Didn’t think I’d get to talk to you today.”

Siren didn’t miss a beat. “So glad you did, Z.”

Zero smiled at that. The kind of smile that lingered a little longer than it needed to.

“Yeah,” he said, voice cracking a little. “Uh, me too.”

His gaze shifted to the droid as he cleared his throat. He gave it a once-over, slow and casual.

“Couldn’t work your magic?” he asked.

“Nope, not this time,” Siren said, appearing disappointed.

He stepped around the table and went through the motions of an inspection. A tap here. A glance there. You could tell he had no idea what he was doing. He knocked his knuckle against the droid’s side. No response. I kept my face neutral and let him look.

“I guess the core’s dead?” he asked.

“Dead as a doornail,” Siren replied.

He nodded like that confirmed everything he needed to know, then glanced up at me.

“Shame,” he said. “Looks like you might’ve had a nice droid there once.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Worth nothing now.”

He chuckled, then glanced back at Siren.

“You know,” he said, lowering his voice just a touch, “if you’re lookin’ to get something more outta this… don’t take this to the trade yard.”

Siren tilted her head. “Oh no?”

“Nope,” he said. “You take that thing over to the other machine shop on the far end? They’ll take it off your hands, no problem.”

Siren shifted her stance and almost took a step closer to Zero. He kept talking.

“Non-working unit that’s already been through here?” he went on. “They don’t even bother trying to fix it. Just strip it and melt it down. You might get more outta it than you think.”

He shrugged like it was nothing.

“Few extra steps,” he added. “But probably worth it.”

I kept my grip on the cart steady, as Siren smiled.

“Well,” she said, “good thing we ran into you then.”

Zero grinned back, clearly pleased with himself.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess so.” He scanned the droid and tapped a few keys on his terminal.

“I tagged it,” he added. “Other shop’ll be expecting it.”

“Appreciate it, Z.” She gave him a quick wink. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Plan on it,” he said as he stepped back to hold the door for us.

“Go on,” he added, flicking a hand toward the corridor. “Let me know what they give ya for it.”

We didn’t waste any time answering. I pushed the cart forward and Siren fell in beside me like nothing about that exchange even mattered. Once we were out of sight, Siren let out a quiet breath.

“Well,” I said. “That worked out.”

She glanced at me sideways. “Yeah.”

I nodded toward the droid. “Guy handed us the route.”

“Yeah,” she repeated.

“What? Too easy?” I asked.

She shook her head slightly. “No,” she said. “Just… funny how things line up.”

We turned down the corridor that led deeper into the Stronghold. Toward the other machine shop. Toward Bob.

The cart rattled softly over the metal floor as we moved. Same pace as before. Just a couple of people hauling dead scrap from one place to another. Nothing to see here. Just a few extra steps.

CHAPTER 13: EIGHTEEN HOURS AND COUNTING | CHAPTER 15 - ABOUT TO BREAK

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CHAPTER 13: EIGHTEEN HOURS AND COUNTING

To be honest, the machine shop didn’t look like much from the outside. Just another reinforced box wedged between larger structures with metal walls that were patched and repatched. There was a faded stencil on the door that said something about “authorized personnel.” But inside was a different story.

The air was hot and alive with the smell of oil, burnt wiring, and a metallic tinge that clung to the back of your throat. The space opened up into a wide work floor littered with half-built machines, stripped frames, and tools laid out across work stations in precise chaos. Sparks flashed from somewhere in the shop. There was a constant clanging and voices echoing, but no one paid us much attention.

Siren didn’t slow. She half-jogged over to a heavyset woman leaning against a workbench.

“Minx!” she called, cutting through the noise

The woman wiped her forehead with a rag, already halfway into a hug as we approached.

“Got your message on the intake manifest. You’re late,” Minx said flatly after the embrace.

“Yeah,” Siren shot back. “We got held up because of this,” pointing to me and the cart.

Minx’s eyes landed on me. Then the cart. She froze like she was calculating something in her head.

“Wait…,” she said slowly. Her gaze sharpened, bouncing between my face and the droid like pieces were snapping into place.

“Are you Brax?”

I didn’t answer, but it seemed I didn’t have to. Her eyes dropped to the droid. Then back to me again. If she knew who I was, she knew Bob.

“…and that’s it?” she muttered as she pointed to the droid. “That’s the one?”

A strange look crossed her face. Something in between relief and panic.

“Shit,” she breathed.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Minx let out a quick breath and ran a hand through her hair. She looked around at the scattered Corpos patrolling the place. They all seemed to be more interested in fraternizing with the mechanics than actually keeping an eye on anything. Minx’s focus shifted back to us and she began to talk like she didn’t have time for this conversation but had no choice.

“You really came,” she said. “He said you might, but I didn’t think…”

“What’s going on?” I asked again, firmer this time.

This time she looked right at me. “Bob’s in trouble.”

That hit harder than I expected.

“What kind of trouble?” I asked.

She hesitated long enough that she was carefully choosing what to say and what not to say.

“He took on something he shouldn’t have,” she said finally. “Got himself mixed up where he doesn’t belong.”

“Corpos?” I asked.

Her mouth tightened. It wasn’t an answer but not a denial either.

“How bad?” I asked.

Minx stepped closer, lowering her voice just a touch.

“He’s on a clock,” she said. “And it’s almost out.”

My grip tightened on the cart handle.

“How long?”

She glanced toward the far side of the shop, like she was picturing a clock ticking somewhere.

“Eighteen hours. Maybe less,” she said.

The number sat there. Too short… way too short.

“What happens when eighteen hours is up?” I asked.

Minx didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Her silence answered for her.

I exhaled slowly. “And this?” I nudged the cart with my foot. “How does this fix it?”

She looked at the droid again.

“It’s his way out,” she said. “Or at least part of it. He was counting on this.”

That was enough for me.

“Then let’s get to it,” I said.

Minx gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Yeah,” she said with a tiny smile. “You guys get to it then.”

She glanced toward the far door.

“I’m already late for my shift.”

Siren stiffened. “How late?”

Minx didn’t answer. She was already moving.

“Siren knows the paths,” she said over her shoulder. “She’ll handle it.”

She broke into a jog toward the door. I watched her go.

“What happens if she’s late?” I asked.

Siren didn’t look at me. “It’s different in the other shop. If she’s not at her station on time, someone else steps in,” she said. “Minx gets locked out. We lose access and… your friend runs out of time.”

That landed just as hard as anything else.

“Alright,” Siren said, snapping out of it. “We’re doing this fast.”

She dropped to a knee, already peeling back the tarp, eyes scanning the droid like she was reading it.

“Power’s dead,” she muttered. “Let’s hope the core’s stable… Good, good.”

She scanned the workstations, eyes jumping from one setup to the next until she found someone. A scruffy-looking kid. Teenager or early twenties, maybe.

“Hey, Toad,” she called. “Can you clear some space and get the tools ready? This is priority scrap.”

Toad didn’t move. He just stood there, staring like he couldn’t be bothered. Siren stepped closer, urgency creeping into her voice.

“C’mon, man…” she said. “I don’t have much time. Please?”

Toad sighed like it physically hurt him. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered.

He dragged a crate aside then started clearing off the nearest bench, slow and sloppy at first.

“Priority scrap,” he grumbled under his breath. “Everything’s priority scrap…”

But he was moving and that was enough.

“And you,” Toad said.

I looked over at him. He was watching me now, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like I’d just walked into his space uninvited.

“…who the hell are you?” he asked.

“I’m Brax,” I said.

“That don’t help me none,” he muttered. His gaze dragged over me again, slower this time. “You don’t look like you belong here.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I seem to be getting a lot of that.”

“That’s ’cause you don’t,” he shot back. “So try harder.”

I frowned. “Meaning?”

He jerked his chin toward the shop floor.

“Meaning you don’t wander. You don’t stare. You don’t ask questions.”

He pointed lazily toward a stack of scrap near the wall.

“Go lean on somethin’. Look like you’re waitin’ on trade or a pickup or whatever boring crap keeps people from lookin’ twice.”

I glanced around. People were working. Moving. Focused. No one noticed what didn’t stand out.

“Right…,” I said.

Toad shrugged, already turning back to the bench.

“Good,” he muttered. “’Cause I ain’t explainin’ you.”

Siren chuckled just a little.

“Go stand over there,” she said, pointing toward the scrap pile Toad had marked. “Try to look like you’ve been here your whole life.”

I walked over, leaned back against the metal, and folded my arms. Around me, the shop kept moving. Grinding and sparking, totally unbothered. Everything looked normal. Like nothing in this place had any idea something very, very wrong was about to happen.

I kept my eyes low and waited as Siren and Toad got to work.

CHAPTER 12 - A PASSAGE TAX | CHAPTER 14 - DEAD WEIGHT

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CHAPTER 12: A PASSAGE TAX

It was a narrow passage, barely wide enough for the cart. Low ceiling. Exposed piping. It twisted just enough to kill any sense of direction. You could hear muffled activity outside, but couldn’t make out any of it. Siren moved like she’d done this a hundred times. I just tried to keep the cart from banging into the walls.

“Where does this go?” I asked quietly.

“Cuts out all the headaches,” she said. “It avoids the main routes.”

We walked in silence after that. Just the sound of the cart wheels rattling over uneven metal. The further we went, the more it felt like I wasn’t supposed to be here. Then the passage ended to a door similar to the one we entered. Siren slowed.

“Act normal,” she muttered as she opened the door.

The room beyond was bright. Not warm, just… lit, compared to the passage. Six Corpos sat scattered around like this was some sort of break room. Metal tables, mismatched chairs, cups and trays left wherever. Their weapons leaned against the walls and chairs without any worry. No one really moved when we walked in. They’d obviously seen this before.

A couple of them glanced up, then back to what they were doing. One guy that was leaning back in his chair, boots up on the table, watched us with a grin.

Siren didn’t hesitate.

“Hey Viper,” she said, casual as anything. “Just moving through.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked me over, then the cart and droid. He smiled wider.

“Well sure,” he said. “You can move through… as long as you give me somethin’ for the privilege.”

He swung his boots down and stood up. He was too relaxed for his own good, with his pierced nose and thin frame.

Siren sighed. “C’mon, Viper. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not,” he chuckled, hands spreading like he was offended. “I’m being reasonable. This is a shared space. Punks like you, Corpos like us… and we share here.”

His eyes slid to me.

“And you brought a guest. He should participate in the sharing too.”

I didn’t like the way he said that.

Siren stepped forward slightly. “Dude, we’re on a timeline. Don’t make this a thing.”

Viper tilted his head, his smile turning a shade more sinister. “Everything’s a thing.”

His buddies started paying more attention now. One of them stood. Then another. This was turning. There were six of them. All armed. No way this ended clean if it suddenly got loud.

“What about this?” I said, stepping forward just enough to shift the focus.

I reached into my pack and pulled out the tube. The map. Viper’s eyes flicked to it immediately.

“…what’s that?”

“Something I picked up in the wilderness out east,” I said, keeping my tone easy. I cracked it open just enough to slide the rolled paper halfway out.

His grin sharpened.

“A map?” he said. “What’s it lead to?”

I shrugged. “Haven’t had the time to chase it down. But stuff like this?” I tapped the tube lightly. “Doesn’t usually point to nothing.”

One of the others leaned in. “Lemme see that.”

Viper lifted his hand and pushed his buddy back.

“I got it,” he said, with his eyes still on me.

He stepped closer. “Treasure map, huh?” he asked, amused.

“I don’t know, but I’d call it a solid lead,” I said. “After I take trade on this droid, I planned to check it out.”

Viper looked intrigued. He took the tube slowly, turning it in his hands like he was weighing it. Then…

He barked a laugh and slapped me on the back hard enough to jolt me forward.

“Man, I like you,” he said. “You got some nuts on ya.”

That wasn’t comforting. He tucked the tube under his arm and seemingly was ushering us out but then his expression shifted.

“Oh… gonna need your Juice too.”

Siren stepped in immediately. “Viper, the map is enough, dontcha think?”

Viper didn’t even look at her, his eyes stayed on me.

“Five,” he said. “Seems about right.”

Behind him, his buddies started to spread out, making sure we knew we weren’t going anywhere without completing the transaction.

I stared at him. He stared back.

For a second time, I thought about it. Is there any way at all we get out of this alive if I don’t give him what he wants? We were deep inside their world now and this was how it worked.

“No problem,” I said as I reached into my pack slowly.

I pulled out the Juice. All five shots. All I had left.

Held them there for a second then handed them over. Viper took them with a satisfied nod.

“See?” he said. “We’re all sharing now.”

He gave me one more look, then he jerked his head toward the door. His buddies moved aside.

“Go on,” he said. “Run along and do your little scrap trade.”

A thin smile pulled at his mouth. “Bye bye, Siren.”

I grabbed the cart and started moving. Siren fell in behind me, quiet. One of his buddies opened the door for us with a mock bow.

I kept pushing the cart for a few steps before I spoke.

“Real smooth system they got here.”

Siren didn’t answer right away.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “You get used to it. It’s their place. Their rules.”

I glanced back once. The door had shut behind us like nothing had happened. I faced forward again and kept walking.

CHAPTER 11 - THE GATE | CHAPTER 13 - EIGHTEEN HOURS AND COUNTING

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CHAPTER 11: THE GATE

We didn’t even make it ten steps after New Ashington came into view before they noticed us.

Four drones peeled off from the gate like they’d been waiting for something to do. They had sleek spherical bodies with black reinforced plating. Their lenses glowed a dull blue, and the small laser ports along their frames looked ready to join the party. They came straight for us.

“…don’t stop,” Siren said under her breath. “Just keep walking.”

I wasn’t planning to. My hand drifted slowly off the cart to Ole’ Sixey.

The drones spread slightly as they approached, forming a loose half-circle. They weren’t friendly, but they didn’t seem hostile either. They were positioning, getting ready to scan.

“Shit,” I muttered. I needed to keep my gun, no matter what.

Siren hit the line first. The lead drone scanned her as she kept an even stride toward the Stronghold. She was used to this- she didn’t even flinch.

My coat shifted just enough as I leaned into the cart, with one hand pushing, the other slipping inside my coat. It was quick and smooth. I eased Ole’ Sixey free and tucked it deep beneath the tarp, wedging it tight against the droid’s frame where metal met metal. My sleight of hand was better than I remembered.

Then a thin beam of light flickered across the ground and swept upward. The beam passed over me first, then the droid and cart. I hesitated for a split second and then kept walking like I had nothing to hide. It moved on.

“…you’re good,” Siren said quietly.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. We reached the gate and the two guards on the wall had stopped their patrol. One leaned forward, squinting down at us. The other took a step closer to the edge, more cautious.

“Oh, hell,” one of them called down. “Siren?”

She shielded her eyes as she looked up at the guard.

“Hey Sato,” she shot back, raising her hand in a lazy wave.

Sato snorted and tilted his head, “Didn’t know you were workin’ today, Girl.”

The other guard didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on me.

“Who’s your friend?” he called.

Siren glanced up at him just long enough to answer. “Found a prime piece,” she said, thumbing back toward the droid. “He’s trading it for some rocksalt.”

The guard held my gaze for another second. Sato said something to him and, after a moment, the guard stepped back.

Siren didn’t wait for any of it. She angled toward a smaller side door that looked like the kind marked ‘employees only,’ and kept walking like she belonged there.

A soft tone chirped as the door opened. A tall security droid stepped forward and then, in a flat, mechanical voice said, “Unregistered equipment detected. Initiating scan.”

A brighter beam swept over the cart and paused.

“Item classified: inactive security unit. Condition: degraded. Action required: log and intake.”

“No,” I said immediately. “That’s not gonna…”

“Brax,” Siren cut in, not even looking at me. “Let it happen.”

“They’re not taking it,” I said.

“They’re not taking it,” she said calmly. “They’re logging it. Big difference.”

The droid turned slightly toward me.

“Resistance to intake noted. Compliance required.”

Siren stepped forward, placing herself just enough between me and the droid to shift its focus.

“Compliance confirmed,” she said. “We’re bringing it in to log and trade.”

A pause. Then…

“Access granted.”

The security droid stepped aside to allow us to enter.

I looked back, just for a second.

Outside was chaos. This world was wild and dangerous. But it made sense to me. It’s what I knew. Inside this place? This was something else.

“…keep moving,” Siren said.

I did.

Inside felt wrong.

The ground was packed and reinforced. Structures rose in tight, deliberate lines. The catwalk overhead made it easy for eyes to be everywhere. People seemed to move with purpose, like they had somewhere to be and didn’t want to be late getting there. And everything watched. Everything.

The droid escorted us without a word, guiding us toward a smaller structure just off the main path. It was reinforced and had no windows.

“Security intake,” Siren muttered.

“Yeah, I figured.”

We stepped inside and the droid closed the door behind us with a heavy chunk.

A single unit stood waiting inside. It was different from the other. It was bulkier and fixed in place behind a waist-high terminal. Its head tilted slightly as we approached, its optics narrowing just a fraction.

“State purpose,” it said.

Siren didn’t miss a beat.

“Salvage intake,” she replied, already stepping up to the terminal.

“Authorization?”

She reached for the keypad and began to type. Her fingers moved quick and confident. Like she’d done this a hundred times. She looked at me before she tapped the final few keys. Then she hit ‘Enter.’ The terminal flickered. A hundred clicks and beeps followed. For a second after that, nothing. Then…

“Priority designation accepted,” the unit said. “Item reclassified: priority scrap. Queue position advanced.”

I blinked. “…priority scrap?” I muttered.

“Relax, it means it can be worked on sooner than later,” she said under her breath.

The unit continued, its voice droning on.

“Standard protocol requires…”

Siren was already moving.

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved it off, stepping past the terminal like it hadn’t even spoken.

I hesitated as the unit’s head turned slightly.

“Remain for-”

Siren glanced back at me, sharp. “Brax. Let’s go.”

Right. I followed with the cart. She crossed the room to what looked like a storage closet along the far wall. There were no markings on the door, which meant it probably mattered.

She grabbed the handle and pulled. The door opened with a soft click. She stepped halfway in, then looked back at me and jerked her head.

“C’mon,” she said. “Unless you wanna sit through the rest of his regulations.”

Behind me, the unit’s voice continued, unwavering.

“Failure to comply with intake procedures may result in-”

I pushed the cart inside and she shut the door behind us. The noise cut off instantly. I stood there for a second, letting my eyes adjust.

“You do that a lot?” I asked.

Her crooked smile flashed in the dark.

“Let’s just say your droid isn’t the first piece of prime scrap the NEWBATS have brought here.”

I exhaled slowly, shaking my head. Yep, this all was a bad idea. This place was going to be a problem.

CHAPTER 10 - FALSE MORNING | CHAPTER 12 - A PASSAGE TAX

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Again, I want to preface this by saying that I’m new to Solo RPGs. I know I’m FAR from the first person to have these moments, but I wanted to share my own experiences anyway. Hopefully, something I stumbled upon might resonate with you.

In my Rolling For Story post, I talked about discovering Solo RPGs and how naturally they clicked for me as a writing and worldbuilding tool. That feeling hasn’t gone away. But as I keep playing, I’ve noticed something else: I don’t feel the same from one solo RPG to another. And I think that feeling goes all the way back to how I first approached roleplaying games as a kid.

I started with the B/X set of Dungeons & Dragons in the early 80s, and absolutely devoured it- every table, every drawing, every stat. Then we finally sat down to play a session, and I remember thinking… we must be doing it wrong! It just wasn’t as fun as I thought it would be. My friends were a little older (13 and 14), and I was only 11, so what the hell did I know? But here’s the part that stands out to me now when I look back on it: They were there for the monster fights and I really wasn’t.

What I cared about was everything around the monster encounters. Sure, I liked the encounters enough, but traveling through unknown lands, walking into a tavern and wondering who we might meet, figuring out how places connected and how that Haunted Keep actually became haunted- I was drawn to the journey and the backstory, not really the boss fight at the end of it.

Looking back, that probably says a lot.

I’ve always loved stories where the protagonist grows into something. Where the road matters as much, if not more than the destination. The kind of arc you see in epic novels and movies. You know the ones… for example, like The Beastmaster! (LOL, what did you think I was going to say?) Where it’s not just about defeating something, it’s about becoming the kind of person who ‘can’. Or those montage moments in 80s TV shows, comics, and films where you watch the characters learn, struggle, adapt… and then finally get it in a way that feels earned and satisfying.

I think that’s been baked into how I engage with games from the beginning. So when I got deeper into Solo RPGs beyond my first experience, I noticed the obvious split.

Some games feel like they’re built on rails… in a good way. They guide you. They keep things moving. You roll, interpret, and the story progresses with a kind of steady momentum. There’s always a sense of what happens next, and you rarely get stuck.

Other games feel much more open. I stumbled upon systems like Cezar Capacle’s Push SRD and story-forward experiences like ECO MOFOS!!, Ironsworn, and Thousand Year Old Vampire. They don’t really push you along in the same way. Instead, they hand you something small like a prompt, a question, or a fragment and ask you to decide what it means. That difference affected me a lot more than I expected.

Because the “on the rails” style feels a lot like momentum. The system keeps asking and answering questions for you. The world unfolds, the stakes build, and you stay in motion. It’s incredibly effective, especially when you just want to sit down and play.

But the more open, narrative-driven games? They feel a lot closer to the game that kid version of me was looking for. The one wandering through the game trying to connect the dots. The one who looked at the drawing of the three magicians on page 47 of the Basic Rules and wondered what was going on there. The one more interested in how things fit together than if I “win.”

The tradeoff is that the narrative-driven games ask more from you. Don’t get me wrong, there are definitely moments where you stall out. Where a prompt is too vague. Where nothing comes to mind or clicks with the story right away. And unlike more structured systems, there’s nothing there to catch you. You have to decide what matters and push yourself forward. Sometimes it’s definitely discouraging but when it works, it taps into something different. It feels less like following a path and more like finding one.

Which brings me to a question I’ve been asking to myself: Are we, as solo RPG players, really just tapping into a different kind of creativity?

When I’m deep in a session, it doesn’t feel like I’m “playing a game” in the traditional sense. It feels like I’m directing something. Framing scenes. Zooming in on moments. Letting certain details come into focus- almost like a movie is being filmed in my head. And maybe that’s why this whole thing connects so strongly to writing. Because whether the game is guiding you or giving you total freedom, you’re still doing the same core thing: turning fragments into something meaningful. Turning prompts into a story. Turning the smallest detail into something unexpectedly important.

This might sound odd after everything I wrote above, but, right now, I’m not sure I prefer one style over the other!

Some days, I want the rails. I want the system to carry me forward and surprise me along the way. Other days, I want the space… even if I sit there for seven minutes with a blank stare on my face. Because that uncertainty in that moment where nothing quite fits yet, that’s also where the most interesting stories seem to come from. And, to be honest, that’s the part I’ve probably been chasing since the beginning.

Check out my story, Echo In the Machine: A tale rolled from ECO MOFOS!!

CHAPTER 10: FALSE MORNING

The morning came in bits and pieces. First came the light in thin rays through the seams of the trailer, cutting pale lines across my face. Then the wind, shifting and restless, whistled through the patched metal with creaks and moans. Then the smell. Something bitter in the air got under my nose and snapped me fully awake.

I opened my eyes and pushed myself upright on the couch. My body complained immediately. My shoulders were tight from hauling the droid, my hands stiff from stress. I sat up and started to stretch my back as I pulled my arms across my chest to hopefully loosen up the old muscles.

Tarot sat near a small burner, crouched low, stirring something in a dented tin cup. Steam curled up in front of his face. He was smiling.

“Morning,” he said, giggling. He actually giggled.

“…morning,” I echoed, voice a little ragged. He took a slow sip from the cup and let out a satisfied hum.

Siren wasn’t awake yet, I assumed.

I stood, continued to stretch out the stiffness, and started checking my gear. I took a quick inventory of my pack. Still intact. I pulled Ole’ Sixey, flipped her open, spun the cylinder once, snapped it closed, and slid it back home.

I looked over at the droid in the cart by the door. It hadn’t moved. Still worth the trouble, I thought.

Then the door creaked open.

Siren stepped in already dressed for the road. Not the loose, lived-in gear from last night. This was tighter. Cleaner. Reinforced in the right places. Her work clothes. Stronghold clothes.

“You’re awake,” she said.

“My mind is, my body’s not,” I replied.

She smiled at that, but it didn’t last. Her eyes flicked to Tarot, then back to me. “We need to move. Weather’s in our favor.”

I nodded. Tarot giggled to himself again. Siren let out a quiet sigh, giving him a look that carried more worry than she wanted to show.

Tarot raised his cup in a lazy toast. “Breakfast, anyone?”

“I’m good,” I said.

We didn’t waste much time after that. Tarot drained the rest of his tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still smiling.

We stepped out into the morning.

The air felt different. The storm had scrubbed it clean, like the world had settled back into place after a rough night. The wind pushed in bursts, shifting direction just enough as we moved west.

Siren took point, eyes scanning everything. Tarot drifted beside the cart for a while, then behind it, then ahead again like he couldn’t quite decide where he belonged. I kept pushing.

“Stronghold’s not far,” Siren said after a while. “Usually takes me a half hour if I don’t get slowed down.”

“What am I walking into?” I asked.

She didn’t answer right away. “CDF,” she said finally. “CryOrg Defense Force. Corpo military. They run the place. They pay so I just do my work. Helps out with our efforts.”

I exhaled slowly. “Yeah… CDF. I’ve heard of them.”

“Then you know,” she said.

“I know enough not to like ‘em.”

“They don’t care,” she replied flatly. “They’ve got resources. Funding. Old-world backing. They’re not trying to survive like everyone else. They’re waiting.”

“For what?”

“A clean slate,” she said. “They’d burn this whole place down if it meant starting over somewhere better.”

“Mars,” Tarot added, sing-song like.

We both looked at him. He was staring off into the distance.

“At least,” he continued, “that’s what they tell themselves.”

“Going-to-Mars, it’s-very-very-fars,” he giggled.

Siren narrowed her eyes. “Tarot.”

He didn’t respond. “Tarot!” she said sharper.

He pointed ahead. “You see that?”

I looked. I didn’t see anything. Just the heat shimmer over the ground. Ripples in the air like a mirage.

“What am I looking at?” I asked.

“They’re not moving,” he whispered. “All of them. Just standing there. Waiting for us…”

Siren stepped in front of him. “What kind of tea? …Tarot! What kind of tea?!”

He blinked, then looked at her. Then smiled again.

“…foxglove,” he said. “And a little yellow mold.”

She stared at him. “Dammit, man! We needed your help today!”

“It helps me think,” he said.

“It’s helping you see things that aren’t there,” Siren snapped. “They’ll never let you through the gate like this.”

Tarot laughed softly. “The gate’s already open for me.”

“It’s not,” she said.

“It is,” he insisted.

Then his expression changed. Sharp and sudden. His eyes flashed to the cart. Then to the droid.

“…no,” he whispered.

I turned to the droid. It hadn’t moved. Tarot screamed.

“It’s on!” he shouted, stumbling backward. “It’s… Brax! It’s awake!”

I grabbed his shoulder. “It’s not…”

He tore free. “Don’t let it get me!” he shouted.

His eyes were wide now. Locked on the droid like it had just stepped off the cart and was coming for him.

“Tarot!”

He tripped, scrambling in the dirt, kicking at nothing. “I don’t wanna die! Not yet!”

I didn’t think. I grabbed my canteen, stepped in, and dumped half of it straight onto his face. The water hit him hard. He gasped, blinking and breathing fast. The panic drained out of him like someone pulled a plug.

He looked at me. Then at Siren. Then around.

“…what?” he said.

Siren crossed her arms. “You’re fucking wasted.”

He wiped his face, confusion settling in where the fear had been. “…I saw it,” he muttered. “I swear I saw it move.”

He looked down at his hands like they weren’t his. Then he looked back the way we’d come.

“…I need to go,” he said.

Siren didn’t argue. “Yeah. You do.”

He nodded once, like that confirmed it. Then he turned and started walking back toward the way we came.

“Hey,” I called after him.

He didn’t stop, he didn’t even look back. He just kept going.

We stood there for a second, watching him shrink into the distance. The wind shifted again, snapping us out of the trace.

“Should we…” I started, pointing to Tarot.

“Leave him,” Siren said.

I looked at her.

“He does this,” she added. “He pushes too far then comes back later like nothing happened. He’s had a rough time of it.”

“You sure we don’t need to go after him?”

She nodded. “He’ll be fine.”

I watched a little longer. Then turned back to the cart.

“…right,” I said. “Let’s keep moving.”

We walked in silence for a bit after that. It felt different somehow. I didn’t like it.

“You care more than you let on,” Siren said after a while.

I glanced at her. “Don’t.”

She smirked. “Just saying.”

“I don’t worry about people,” I said.

“Sure,” she replied.

I didn’t answer that. Instead, I shifted gears.

“So this Stronghold,” I said. “You said you’ve got work there.”

She nodded. “Yeah, we repair anything they might find useful. Salvage integration. Things they don’t want to waste time on, comes to my shop and we try to fix it.”

I gestured to the droid. “Something like this?”

Her eyes followed mine. “Yeah,” she said. “Something exactly like that.”

A thought clicked.

“Wait… Bob,” I said.

She looked at me. “Your friend?”

“Yeah, he’s a tinkerer,” I said. “Always messing with old tech. Fixing things he probably shouldn’t waste his time on.”

She tilted her head. “Yeah, so?”

“Is there another workshop?” I asked. “Is there another shop inside that he might work at?”

She thought for a second. “Yeah. Far side of the Stronghold. They work on long-term stuff. Bigger projects and newer equipment that goes down.”

“Think he might be there?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I know someone over there. Minx. She runs in that crowd.”

I nodded slowly. “My message to Bob… probably hasn’t been delivered yet. Let’s start with her then.”

Siren gave me a sideways look. “So you really came all this way on a ‘maybe,’ huh?”

I shrugged. “He’s a good ‘maybe.’”

The Stronghold rose into view not long after. The towers first, then movement up on the walls. Then the scale of it. It sat there like it owned the land around it. Built from layers of scrap, concrete, and old-world steel. Reinforced over time into something that didn’t care what the world threw at it.

Guns lined the upper edges. Watchers paced slow and steady. CDF flags snapped in the wind. There was definitely money, power and control here.

“New Ashington,” Siren said.

I let out a slow breath.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Time to get serious.”

I adjusted my grip on the cart, glanced down at Ole’ Sixey and squared my shoulders as we walked toward the gates.

“Let’s see what Bob got himself into.”

CHAPTER 9 - SIREN'S PLACE | CHAPTER 11 - THE GATE

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CHAPTER 9: SIREN’S PLACE

It didn’t look like much from the outside. A gutted tanker trailer stitched together with scrap metal and sheet panels, half-sunk into the earth. Bits of wire and plating patched the sides. A dim glow leaked out through slits in the seams. But it was standing. And more importantly, it was lived in.

“That’s home,” Siren said.

“Not bad,” I muttered.

I hauled the cart up alongside the structure and felt the weight of the day finally settle into my shoulders. Every step since the forest had been a grind.

Siren gave a quick wave to someone on patrol. “That’s Honey.”

They waved back, just as quick. Siren knocked twice on the metal frame and pushed the door open.

The warm air hit me first. Inside was bigger than it had any right to be. The trailer opened into a wide common space, cluttered but organized in that way only people who lived there could manage. Tables were built from anything flat. Shelves were lined with salvage. A few lamps and flashlights shined low.

Three people looked up when we stepped in. None of them smiled.

“Evenin’,” Siren said.

A lanky guy slouched near a workbench, eyes half-lidded, a slow blink like he’d just come back from somewhere far away. Another sat curled into herself on a chair, hands tucked in, watching me like I might break something just by standing there. And off to the side, a man in a long coat barely looked up at all, muttering to himself over a spread of tools and what looked like pinball machine parts.

“This is Brax,” Siren said. “He’s with me.”

That didn’t seem to settle much.

“He’s not one of us,” the man at the table muttered, not looking up.

Siren sighed. “He’s not NEWBAT, Doc,” she said. “I know.”

That word hung in the room for a second.

“NEWBAT?” I asked.

The lanky one gave a slow grin. “Next Earth Well-Being and Tech,” he said. “We dig. Crawl old bunkers and pull what still matters outta the dirt.”

“Adaptation specialists,” Doc added dryly. “That’s what we call ourselves.”

I nodded. “Sounds like a lotta work.”

“It is,” Siren said, as she pulled out the binoculars and stepped forward, handing them to the man she called “Doc.”

Guild types. That explained the looks.

The lanky one gave a lazy nod. “I’m Tarot.”

The quiet one didn’t speak. “That’s Queen,” Siren added for her.

The man at the table snorted. “Doctor Garcia.”

I gave a small nod. “Appreciate the roof tonight.” No one answered that either.

I rolled the droid inside and parked it along the wall. Tarot’s eyes followed it immediately, the fog in them clearing just a bit.

“Whoa, that’s a haul,” he said, pushing himself upright. “Where’d you dig that up?”

“In an old bunker,” I said. “A long ways from here.”

He wandered closer, circling it slow. “Yeah… yeah, that’s something.”

Siren dropped her pack and leaned against the wall. “He’s heading to the stronghold. I told him I could fix it.”

Tarot nodded, but his eyes stayed on the droid, tracking it up and down.

Doctor Garcia looked up this time. “With a find like that,” he said, “you could be NEWBAT in no time…”

Garcia smirked and shrugged, still examining the binoculars. “Initiation builds character.”

“Sleep. We need sleep, Doc,” she snapped back.

The door to one of the back rooms creaked open. A man stepped out, stretching his arms like he’d just woken up. He stopped when he saw me. Looked me over then looked at Siren. Something in his expression tightened.

“Who the fuck is this?” he asked.

“This is Brax,” she said. “He helped me out.”

“Mmm hmm,” he grunted.

He didn’t sound convinced. His eyes flicked to the droid, then back to me. Then to Siren again. He didn’t like something about the situation. Could’ve been me. Could’ve been the way she brought me in. It probably was me.

“That’s Jester,” Siren said with a certain tone, like that explained it.

He raised his hands in submission and forced a smile. “Welcome to our home,” he said as he walked toward the door shaking his head.

It definitely didn’t feel like a welcome. I let it slide. “Is the couch taken?” I asked.

Tarot shook his head. “All yours, man.”

I nodded and dropped my pack near it and sat down. Springs poked through the cushions in a few places, but it still beat sleeping in a brush patch or a puddle of mud.

Tarot hovered nearby, still eyeing the droid. Then he nodded, satisfied, and drifted back to his corner.

Siren stretched and yawned. “I’m turning in,” she said. “You’ll be alright?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve had worse nights.”

She gave me that crooked smile again, then disappeared into one of the back rooms. The others settled back into their routines. Quiet and watchful. I leaned back on the couch and closed my eyes.

I didn’t sleep. Not really. The place seemed safe. Safer than most. But my head wouldn’t shut off. Too many new faces. Too many unknowns. My thoughts raced with no stopping them. After a while, I gave up. I got up, double-checked Ole’ Sixey, adjusted my coat, grabbed my flask, and stepped outside.

It was cool and quiet. Just the wind moving through the scrub. I took a swig of moonshine and leaned against the side of the trailer.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

I glanced over. Jester stood a few paces off, shifting his weight, shoulders squared, like he was bracing for whatever might come.

“Something like that,” I said.

He stepped closer to say something to me, like he’d been rehearsing it since he stormed out.

“You move fast,” he said in a low tone. “Show up outta nowhere. Got Siren talking like you’re something special.”

I frowned. “Didn’t realize I was doing anything of the sort.” He ignored me. I took another drink.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he said. “You leave. Now. Take your broken tin can and get far from here.”

I straightened. “Look,” I said, “I’m just passin’ through. That’s it. I’ll be gone at sun-up.”

He pulled a knife from his belt and held it toward me.

“No. You’ll leave when I tell you to leave. Oh, and leave your pack,” he added. “I’m sure there’s something in there worth keeping more than your busted robot.”

I let out a breath. “Well, that’s not gonna happen,” I said, sliding my coat back and resting my hand on Ole’ Sixey.

He tilted his head and looked at the gun like it made no difference. “I’m not afraid of you and that old antique,” he chuckled.

“Don’t do this, brother,” I said. And, for a second, I thought he might actually listen.

Then he lunged.

I drew and fired.

The shot cracked loud in the night.

He dropped hard, clutching his shoulder, knife still in his grip.

“Ah, shit!” he hissed.

Commotion flared inside the trailer and the NEWBATs were outside fast, with weapons in hand.

Siren’s eyes snapped between us. “What happened?” she demanded.

Jester pointed at me. “He… He- shot me!”

“He came at me,” I said calmly. “I told him to stop.”

They looked at the knife, still in Jester’s hand. Then they looked at me with my gun low.

Siren’s jaw tightened. “Jester, is that true?” she asked him.

Jester didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Doctor Garcia stepped forward with an unreadable expression. “That’s enough.”

Tarot kicked the knife out of Jester’s hand.

Queen stayed back, but her eyes were locked on him. Not me. That told me everything.

They hauled him to his feet. “Get your gear and get out!,” Garcia said.

Jester stared at them. “You serious right now?”

No one answered. That was answer enough. They tossed his belongings at his feet.

“Go,” Siren said.

For a second, I thought he might argue. Then he looked at me and my gun again and laughed a bitter laugh.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “You’ll see.”

He staggered off into the dark with one hand pressed to his shoulder. We all watched until he disappeared. No one spoke for a while, then Siren finally exhaled.

“He’s changed,” she said quietly. “Been like that for a while now. Always looking for something to take. Not part of this anymore. It became more for himself and not for the cause.”

Garcia nodded once. “He was too far gone.”

Tarot rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah… we saw this coming.”

There was silence again, then Garcia clapped his hands once.

“There will be a new watch rotation,” he said. “We will need to adjust.”

There were nods in agreement.

“You two,” he added, glancing at me and Siren, “best get some sleep. You’ve got a long day.”

Tarot perked up. “I’m going with them. If… you don’t mind me tagging along?”

Siren smiled. “Figured you might.” THen she looked at me for approval.

I nodded. “I could use an extra hand pushing that ton of scrap.”

Things settled after that. Almost like the skirmish didn’t even happen. I made my way back to the couch and lied down.

I closed my eyes and this time, I actually slept.

CHAPTER 8 - THE TANGLE | CHAPTER 10 - FALSE MORNING

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CHAPTER 8: THE TANGLE

The terrain turned mean again.

The open hills and clear landscape funneled down to just a narrow run of hard-packed dirt cutting through scrubland that didn’t want me there. Bramble clawed at me, gorse snagged at my boots. Every step forward felt like I was being poked and prodded to turn around and go back the way I came. The cart didn’t help.

It dragged harder with every meter. The wheels caught on roots and the frame rattled and hitched over everything in its way. The droid sat there dead and heavy, bobbing with the motion.

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, leaning into it. “I see ya.”

Ahead, the path narrowed even more. And that’s when I saw the bones.

Massive skeletons scattered across the edges of the trail like someone had dropped them there on purpose. Grizzlies maybe, or what used to be some kind of bear. Only ribcages and skulls were left, split and weathered.

I slowed when I saw something moved near the bones.

A figure.

Standing just off the path, half-hidden in the tangle. Small. Still. Watching me.

I didn’t like it. There was no room to go around, the brush was too thick on both sides. If I turned back, I’d lose half a day or maybe more.

So I kept rolling forward. Slow and careful, with my hand drifting near Ole’ Sixey.

The figure shifted as I got closer, then ducked down behind one of the ribcages like I might not notice.

I stopped the cart and looked right at where they’d gone. I stepped closer, just enough to see over the bones.

There she was.

Flame red hair, messy and bright against all that brown and gray. Half crouched behind a skeleton like a kid hiding behind a chair. She turned her head away just a little, like if she didn’t look at me, I might not see her at all.

She was scared. Or shy. Or at least pretending to be. I watched her for a second. She didn’t move. She just… existed there. She might have froze there all day if I kept looking at her.

“Alright then,” I said out loud and grabbed the cart again and started rolling past. Honestly, I didn’t need any trouble and really didn’t want the conversation.

“Hey.”

I stopped. Of course as I passed, she would say something. I sighed and glanced back over my shoulder.

Her eyes were on the droid. Not me.

“Is that yours?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“What model is it?”

“A heavy one,” I said. “And broken.”

She snuffed something that might’ve been a laugh.

I nodded toward the bones. “What’re you doing digging around a pile of dead bears?”

She hesitated. Just for a second.

Then pointed.

“Binoculars,” she said. “Tangled in there. See?”

I followed her finger and squinted to where she was pointing…and, I’ll be damned. A clean pair of binoculars wedged deep in the mess of bones and thorned brush. They didn’t look like scrap either. They looked old-world. Solid and built to last.

I looked back at her. She shrugged, “been trying to get them out.”

I eyed her for a second. It could’ve been a setup- a way to get me distracted. Could’ve also been nothing.

“Want a hand?” I asked reluctantly, half-wanting her to decline.

Her expression tightened just a bit, with fear or anxiety.

“...maybe,” she said. “Can I trust you to do the right thing?”

I blinked. “What does that mean?”

She looked down at the bones. “There was this Waster,” she said slowly. “He helped me once. Or said he would.”

I didn’t say anything.

“We did a bunch of work together,” she continued. “Then he took everything and left me stuck. Even took my tools.”

She glanced up at me then. “Tools are hard to replace.”

“Yeah,” I said. That tracked.

I shifted my weight. “Look, I’m just a Punk tryin’ to get where I need to be. I was rolling past you and you yelled to me, remember? Do you want me to help or not?”

Her eyes flicked to my gun and lingered there. I followed her gaze.

“Ah, yeah. Okay,” I said.

I slowly drew Ole’ Sixey. Her shoulders tensed.

I popped the cylinder open, turned it on its side and emptied the bullets so she could see. Then I held it out, handing it to her.

“Hold onto it,” I said. That got a reaction. She smiled then reached out slowly and carefully and took it. I nodded toward the gun. “Is that enough for you?”

“Yeah.” She gave a small, crooked smile.

I shimmied the cart off to the side of the path, grunting as the wheel caught on yet another root. “Stay,” I motioned to the droid with my open hands. Then I stepped into the mess.

The bramble scraped along my coat as I crouched low and worked my way into the thicket of scrub and bones. Up close, it was worse. Thorns wrapped through ribs and twisted tight around the binoculars like they’d grown there on purpose.

I reached in, my long arms helping, fingers brushing metal.

“Got ‘em,” I said. I pulled.

Nothing.

“Yeah, nope,” I muttered. “That ain’t happening. They are tied up real good.” I looked back at her.

“You got anything to cut through this shit?”

She was already moving. She pulled a hunting knife from her belt.

The way she held it… Sharp, focused.

For half a second, I thought I’d just walked myself into something real stupid.

“Well,” I thought to myself, lying there, “this is how I go. Stuck like a pig in a tangle of bones.”

She paused, then flipped the knife and held it out to me, handle first.

“…oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

She smirked. “You’re welcome.”

I took the knife and got to work, sawing through the bramble. It resisted at first, then gave with a series of dry snaps.

“You know,” she said behind me, “I’m something of a mechanic.”

I snorted. “Is that so?” I cut another strand.

“Yeah. What kind of ‘busted’ is that thing?” she asked, her eyes looking it over piece by piece.

“For one, the power’s dead. It was when we got it, so I don’t even know. Frame appears to be good. Those old security units were built to last.”

She didn’t answer right away. She just stepped closer to the cart, head tilted, like she was already troubleshooting it in her head.

I cut the last of the tangle and pulled the binoculars free.

“Got it.”

I worked my way back out of the bones and bramble and handed her the knife first. Then the binoculars.

She took both, checking the lenses on the binoculars like she didn’t quite believe it.

A sly grin spread across her face. “Nice,” she said.

She offered me a hand. I took it and let her pull me out the rest of the way.

“I appreciate it,” she said.

“No problem,” I said as I dusted my hands and coat off.

She handed Ole’ Sixey back. I checked it out of habit, reloaded it, then slipped it into its holster.

“So you fix droids?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “But my tools are at work,” she added.

“Where’s work?”

She pointed west. “In the stronghold.”

I let out a breath. “Of course.”

She watched me for a second. “You heading that way?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Got a friend there that I promised this droid to.”

She nodded slowly. “I’m Siren,” she said.

“Brax.”

We stood there for a moment as the wind moved through the scrub.

“You got a place to crash?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Nope, I’ve been sleeping wherever I end up.”

She pursed her lips, then nodded to herself.

“Come on,” she said after a moment. “I’ve got a spot not far from here.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You trust me now?”

“...enough.” She flashed that same smirk she’d given me with the knife.

I looked at the cart, looked west, then back at her.

“Lead the way,” I said as I gestured forward. She nodded and stepped in front of the cart and started walking. I grabbed the cart and started rolling.

And just like that, I wasn’t walking alone anymore.

CHAPTER 7 - STORM TRADE | CHAPTER 9 - SIREN'S PLACE

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CHAPTER 7: STORM TRADE

The land opened up into low, rolling hills.

The kind that looked soft from a distance but hid a thousand small things waiting to trip you. The ground was alive with movement. There were large insects, some sort of giant ant, hauling twigs and branches twice their size, working in frantic lines like they knew something I didn’t.

They didn’t even pay attention to me. They just worked faster.

That’s when the sky cracked.

Thunder rolled across the horizon, deep and sudden. A second later, lightning split the hills in the distance. It was moving fast.

I glanced at the ants again. Yeah, they knew.

“Dammit. Storm’s coming,” I muttered.

I adjusted my grip on the cart and pushed harder with a half jog, scanning the hills for anything resembling shelter.

That’s when I saw the cave.

It was tucked into the side of a rise just ahead. I could barely see the opening from my view, but it looked big enough. It should be perfect.

I angled the cart toward it and maneuvered over the uneven ground as the first drops of rain began to fall. Big drops began to fall spaced too far apart. Not rain yet, but a serious warning. I lowered my head and dug in, pushing harder and faster to get there.

I reached the cave entrance, looked up and stopped cold.

A shotgun stared back at me.

“Easy,” I said, as I slowly raised my hands.

The man holding it didn’t lower the barrel. Prickly-looking type. Hard eyes. Face marked with a faded tattoo which looked like it might have been a mermaid, of all things.

Behind him, deeper in the cave, stood a woman. Buzzed hair, thin frame, her eyes fixed on me, uncertain.

They’d seen me coming.

“State your business,” the man said.

“Name’s Brax,” I answered. “Just passing through. Storm’s about to break and I’m just looking for a place to wait it out.”

The shotgun didn’t move.

His eyes flicked past me to the cart.

“What’re ya hauling there?”

“Busted droid,” I said. “Nothing worth the trouble.”

We stood there for a long second while the sky rumbled again, louder this time.

He glanced back at the woman. She gave the smallest shake of her head. She didn’t like the looks of me. Or Ole’ Sixey hanging on my belt. I guess that’s fair.

“I’m not looking to stay,” I added. “I just need to keep the droid out of the rain.”

“What’s it worth to you?” he asked.

There it was. Business. Not hostility.

Rain began to fall in earnest now, heavier drops tapping against the metal with loud plinks and plunks.

I didn’t have time to argue. I slowly and deliberately moved toward my pack and opened it. The man kept the shotgun poised but his eyes were on my pack and the contents.

“Got some orchids. Few bits of salvage. Peyote root.”

The woman’s attention shifted at that. It was the first real reaction I’d seen from her.

“Juice?” I added.

The man snorted. “No interest in Juice,” he scoffed.

The rain picked up, turning from scattered drops into a steady sheet. Thunder cracked again, closer.

The woman stepped forward slightly, eyes still on the pack. “The root,” she said quietly.

The man looked at her, then back at me.

“The peyote,” he said. “That’ll do.”

I hesitated for half a second. Bob’s message sat heavy in the back of my mind. The droid had to make it. I handed the root over.

He took it without a word, then grabbed the cart and hauled the droid inside like it weighed nothing.

“Any chance you know how to fix him?” I asked.

He barked a laugh and jerked a thumb at the woman. “Nope. We’re artist types now.”

He continued, “but, back in the day, I could break down a pulsar rifle and put it back together in seventeen seconds flat. That and a shot of J could get you a ride on the old tramway.”

He grinned at that, tucking the carted droid under the edge of his cave, then he motioned out toward the hills.

“See that outcropping right there?”

The insects were working faster now, finishing the small shelters from the branches they’d been hauling. I followed his gaze.

“That’s your best bet,” he said.

The rain turned violent. I didn’t wait a second more. I ran toward the grouping of trees as fast as I could. I dragged what I could together- branches, scraps, anything, and threw together the worst lean-to I’d ever built, using my trench coat as the cover. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Then the true storm hit.

Wind howled across the hills. Rain slammed down hard enough to sting. Lightning cracked overhead, closer now. BOOM!

A tree split in half not far from where I was sheltering.

“Ah, shit…”

Another crack. Another tree. It was too close for comfort. The only cover I had was also drawing the lightning. I ran just as the lightning struck again to take out its third tree. The ground was already turning to mud, the water pooled fast in the lowlands. My boots slipped as I pushed away from the trees, thunder chasing me across the hills.

Then, just as fast as it came, it stopped. The rain slowed. The thunder rolled away. The wind died.

Silence.

I stood there, soaked, breathing hard. I slowly walked back to my lean-to wreckage. My coat hung in tatters. It was torn clean through where a falling limb had caught it.

“Dammit.”

I adjusted my pack and checked the contents. They were dry enough.

On the way back to the cave, I scooped up a few hunks of blue mold from a cluster of rocks out of habit. I was always foraging.

The man sat near the entrance of his cave, watching the storm fade. The woman looked like she had melted over an old chair, eyes distant. Spaced out from the root.

I stepped closer and nodded.

“Appreciate you keeping him dry.”

The man grunted, then looked me over again, slower this time. With less suspicion and more curiosity, maybe.

“I’m Crane,” he said, nodding. Then he motioned back into the cave. “That’s Solar.” She didn’t speak.

“Good to meet ya,” I said. “Well… time for me to keep on, keepin’ on.”

Crane snorted. “We’re all tryin’ to do that.”

For a moment, the two of us just stood there, listening to the rain off in the distance.

“So how much further you two going?” he asked, gesturing toward the droid.

“Far enough to make me second-guess it,” I smiled.

He studied me for a moment longer then looked back at the droid.

“I used to run with Corpos,” he said after a beat. “I was security detail. Before I got smart.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You got smart and left?”

“I got smart and began to live,” he grinned. Then, after a pause, “Don’t have much love for Punks… or Wasters.” His eyes flicked to Solar.

A soft gaze passed between them. “But I’m trying,” he smiled.

Solar shifted slightly, arms folded, gaze lowered again. Like she didn’t quite believe in his “trying” yet.

“World’s got a way of catching up to ya,” he said quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

Silence settled again, so I stepped forward and held out my hand.

“Thanks Crane.”

Crane took my hand with a firm grip and shook it.

“You better get moving,” he said. “Storms aren’t the only thing that roll through here.”

I nodded and grabbed the cart and started rolling the droid back out.

“Hey,” he called after me. I turned as he tossed something my way.

A leather duster.

“You look about my size,” he said. “Can’t be out in the world without a coat.”

I caught it, surprised. “Thanks,” I said again.

He waved it off.

I slipped the coat on. It fit well enough. “Yeah,” I muttered. “That’ll do.”

I rolled the droid back onto the path and kept moving. A few kilometers later, I reached into my pocket without thinking. My fingers brushed metal.

I pulled them out. Bullets.

I smiled.

Of course an ex-Corpo guy like Crane knew exactly what Ole’ Sixey would spit. And he probably had a cache of weapons and ammo stored that he could afford to be generous.

I slipped them back into my pocket and kept rolling.

Toward Bob.

CHAPTER 6 - THE BURROW | CHAPTER 8 - THE TANGLE

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CHAPTER 6: THE BURROW

Daylight came gray and heavy. The sky hung low with thick clouds, draining what little color the world still had. It barely felt brighter than the night before.

By the time I reached the edge of the forest, the trees had thinned into something almost normal. Behind me, the shifting grove still stirred. Vines twitched and recoiled, branches scraping faintly against one another like they didn’t want to let me go.

I didn’t look back. I was glad to be done with that unforgiving place.

Ahead, hidden beneath a curtain of overgrowth, was the bunker.

The vines had done their job. They’d crawled over the entrance, woven themselves into a natural wall that hid the structure from anyone passing through. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never see it.

Bob and I had chosen well.

I pushed aside strands of vine and overgrowth and, with some effort, was able to work my way through.

There it was. The door, sealed just like we’d left it.

I pulled out my locator and double-checked the signal. The droid’s pulse blinked back at me.

Right where we’d stashed it. I let out a deep exhale.

Getting here from the east had been a mistake. The wilderness on that side didn’t want travelers, and it showed. The path from the south, the one Bob and I had taken before, had been cleaner. Safer.

Too late to worry about that now, I made it. I have a bloody head to prove it.

I scanned the area through the vine growth. I watched the tree line, the broken ground, the edges of the forest. Nothing moved. No Bandits. No Corpos. No watchers in the brush.

Just me and the door.

I drew Ole’ Sixey, aimed at the lock, and pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the quiet, loud enough to wake anything for a mile. The lock jumped, metal sparking and splitting under the impact.

I gave it a moment.

Aside from a flock bursting into the air, nothing came running. Good.

I stepped forward, grabbed the latch, and pulled.

Nothing. Not even a budge. The seal held fast. Rust had set in deep. Time had done the rest. I sighed, lifted the revolver again, and fired.

The second shot tore into the weakened metal, echoing out into the gray morning.

I checked the latch. Still nothing. “Dammit.”

A third shot.

Another echo. I grabbed the latch again. “It’s gotta give…”

I yanked with everything I had behind it. On the fifth or sixth hard pull, the lock finally gave. The latch cracked loose in my hand, and I nearly fell backward.

The door groaned as I pulled it open, metal dragging against metal.

I stepped back, letting the stale darkness inside breathe out.

I flipped open the revolver, hoping I’d somehow miscounted.

Nope.

I stared at the cylinder for a second, then snapped it closed and shook my head.

“Three hot rocks left,” I muttered in disgust.

Not exactly ideal for the rest of the trip.

The bunker inside was just as I remembered it.

Dark. Silent. Empty.

It was just an old burrow carved into the earth, reinforced with scraps of metal and stone. Abandoned long before all the crud happened, if I had to guess. The kind of place people forgot about, which made it perfect.

Bob and I had been lucky to find it. And we trusted it enough to hide something valuable inside.

I stepped in, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the open door. Dust hung in the air, undisturbed. No tracks. No signs anyone had been here since we sealed it up.

I moved deeper into the burrow and there it was.

The droid. Right where we’d left it.

Half-covered in the tarp, propped up in the rolling cart like it had simply been waiting for me. Its frame was intact, solid plating, reinforced joints, the kind of old-world build that didn’t quit unless something made it.

I crouched beside it and pulled the tarp back the rest of the way.

It was an old security detail. Built to hold a line. Built to end problems. The pulse cannons mounted along its arms still sat clean in their housing, dormant but intact.

“I hope you still got some bite left in you,” I said to myself.

I checked the power.

The status signal pulse blinked at me. Barely a heartbeat, but enough to keep its locator ping alive for another couple hundred years. Not enough power to wake it. Not even close… which meant one thing. I was going to be hauling it the rest of the way.

“Well,” I said to the half-dead droid, “looks like you’re riding shotgun.”

I rubbed the back of my neck and shook my head. Sounded a lot better back home, sitting in my chair.

“I really should’ve thought this through.”

Still… I couldn’t help but look it over again. There was something about this droid. It was solid. Precise. Intimidating in a way that didn’t need to show off. The kind of machine that made people think twice before getting close.

If it could be fixed, like really fixed, it’d be worth more than anything I could carry.

Something like this didn’t just protect you. It made you untouchable. Gave you space. Quiet. The chance to live without always looking over your shoulder.

I let that thought sit for a moment.

Yeah. I wanted that. And I figured Bob did too.

I exhaled, grabbed the cart, and started hauling. No point standing around dreaming.

CHAPTER 5 - THE WATCHER | CHAPTER 7 - STORM TRADE

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CHAPTER 5: THE WATCHER

I don’t know how long I was out. One moment I was drifting, half-conscious in the brush… and then there was nothing.

I don’t know what woke me. Maybe the pain in my skull. Maybe that damned shifting forest again. Or maybe something deeper.

I’d been holed up enough times to know- when you wake like that, even half-concussed, you don’t move. Something in your mind stops you from making any sudden motion, just in case there’s danger nearby.

I felt it. Danger was nearby. I didn’t move.

Through half-open eyes, I saw it.

A dark figure, maybe twenty paces out, drifting between the trees.

Slow. Careful. Watching.

A hood hung low over its face, the fabric dark and heavy, swallowing what little light the forest gave. In one hand it carried a long, crooked staff, prodding at the ground over roots and mold alike. A low hum followed its movements.

The sound turned me cold.

A Doom Seer.

My heart slammed hard enough in my chest that I thought it might shake the brush around me.

Don’t move! The thought came fast and sharp. Don’t even breathe.

I forced my body to stay still, wishing I were deeper in the tangle of branches. The cloth at the back of my head had gone stiff with dried blood. It started to itch. My fingers twitched once. I caught them and forced them still.

The Seer moved closer.

It crouched low, dragging its free hand through the soil, fingers digging at the roots. It lifted something to its face…fungus, maybe? And held it there like it was examining it. Or tasting it.

The air around it felt wrong. Heavy. Colder. Like the space around it was closing in.

My hand hovered near Ole’ Sixey, but I didn’t dare reach for it. Even the thought of drawing iron felt loud enough to give me away.

If that thing turned its attention on me… if it used its Orb spells- I’d be more than dead. They say the Elders can take a piece of your soul. I had no interest in finding out.

My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Too loud. Way too loud.

It’s going to hear it.
It’s going to hear me.

The Seer stopped.

For a second, just a second, it tilted its head. Listening.

My chest tightened. I forced my breathing shallow, slow, barely there. Every muscle in my body locked in place.

Then, somewhere deeper in the forest, something moved. A crack of a branch and a rustle in the undergrowth.

The Seer turned.

Just like that, its attention slipped away from me and followed the sound into the trees. It rose slowly, staff scraping softly against the ground, and drifted in the opposite direction.

Unhurried, like it knew it had time.

I didn’t move. Not right away.

I stayed there, frozen in the brush, counting my breaths, listening as hard as I could until the sound of its movement faded into nothing.

Only then did I let the air leave my lungs. I was still here. Still alive. Still whole. I swallowed hard and pushed myself up, every movement careful and quiet.

I needed to get away from this place, and fast. The opposite direction. That was the only thought that mattered now. I took one last look into the dark where the Seer had gone.

Why was something like that even out here?

Doom Seers belonged to the Wastelands. This was the wrong direction.

CHAPTER 4 - THE UNQUIET TREES | CHAPTER 6 - THE BURROW

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