BloodyBuddy
Your average blood dealer
(Background/Overview)
"It's good to be alive, psycho faces. I suppose everyday that passes is another day lived, what with the Spritz settling in on our lands. You're here with the PomGrenade, 24/7 giving you the best of the best to listen to when you're running for you lives. That hell of a gas we call the Spritz isn't gonna slow down, but the Tzigane eventually do. It all depends on how you run and where you head to. But listen up, psycho faces. If you get ghosted because of the Spritz, do it in style. Make it a drama, a tragedy, hell. You can die flipping off the sun itself. The important part is to stay true, and go down with a smile on your face. Keep your masks on, here we go."
The microphone was shut off, and music began to play. Strums of guitars, beating of drums, and the raspy voice of a singer. The boy who called himself 'PomGrenade,' around 18 years old, leaned back in his chair, lowering the headphones from his ears.
"Where we heading to next, Brick?" He called out. There wasn't much of an answer. Some taps, rustling and papers being shuffled. "Bell, huh?" He muttered. He let out a deep exhale and rubbed his tired eyes. It had taken much longer to get to the next radio shelter, especially since the Tzigane wouldn't stop chasing them.
"Pommer..." A slightly deep, quiet voice called from the other room. Pommer, the radio broadcaster, spun in the chair to face Brick. The blonde haired boy, the same age as Pommer, was standing in the doorway, completely silent. Pommer seemed to understand the silent message and ran a hand through his own black locks.
"Damn..." Pommer muttered. "They caught up fast." He stayed quiet for a long time, before standing, pushing his chair back. "Let's go. Pack everything up." He said finally, grabbing his microphone, and a few different radios. Brick packed up a laptop, and handed Pommer a handheld. Pommer plugged his headphones into it and toggled with a few switches and buttons, hearing his own radio station come up. With cases under their arms and a backpack on their backs, the two boys ran out back, pulling bandannas over their noses, towards a rusty, silver van with spray painted designed on the doors, sides and hood.
The two pulled down goggles over their eyes and raised their hoods to block out the sun from their skin. Brick started driving away, just as the first Tzigane showed up. Pommer pulled on his headphones, lowered his bandanna and raised the handheld to his lips.
"And with the morning, we've already been run down by the Tzigane. It's PomGrenade on the road today, with my face still unknown. But who knows. You might catch me if you hear me talk. I'd say lets get this show on the road, but the party's already here." He switched off the handheld's microphone and pulled his bandanna back over his mouth. Once again, music flooded his headphones, and he pulled them off, lowering the volume of his radio.
Pommer leaned back looking out the window. Concrete city was still as desert like as ever. Nothing but sand and sky. And a group of four or five Tzigane chasing someone. Pommer sat up. That wasn't something that normally happened. One sure. But five? He nudged Brick and pointed out the window. The blonde boy at the wheel understood and jerked the wheel hard to the right. The van skidded straight towards the Tzigane, and slammed into two of them. Pommer climbed into the back of the van and threw the doors open, grabbing the ray gun at his belt. He jumped to the sand and took down another.
"Here! Come here!" He shouted at whoever was running away.
"It's good to be alive, psycho faces. I suppose everyday that passes is another day lived, what with the Spritz settling in on our lands. You're here with the PomGrenade, 24/7 giving you the best of the best to listen to when you're running for you lives. That hell of a gas we call the Spritz isn't gonna slow down, but the Tzigane eventually do. It all depends on how you run and where you head to. But listen up, psycho faces. If you get ghosted because of the Spritz, do it in style. Make it a drama, a tragedy, hell. You can die flipping off the sun itself. The important part is to stay true, and go down with a smile on your face. Keep your masks on, here we go."
The microphone was shut off, and music began to play. Strums of guitars, beating of drums, and the raspy voice of a singer. The boy who called himself 'PomGrenade,' around 18 years old, leaned back in his chair, lowering the headphones from his ears.
"Where we heading to next, Brick?" He called out. There wasn't much of an answer. Some taps, rustling and papers being shuffled. "Bell, huh?" He muttered. He let out a deep exhale and rubbed his tired eyes. It had taken much longer to get to the next radio shelter, especially since the Tzigane wouldn't stop chasing them.
"Pommer..." A slightly deep, quiet voice called from the other room. Pommer, the radio broadcaster, spun in the chair to face Brick. The blonde haired boy, the same age as Pommer, was standing in the doorway, completely silent. Pommer seemed to understand the silent message and ran a hand through his own black locks.
"Damn..." Pommer muttered. "They caught up fast." He stayed quiet for a long time, before standing, pushing his chair back. "Let's go. Pack everything up." He said finally, grabbing his microphone, and a few different radios. Brick packed up a laptop, and handed Pommer a handheld. Pommer plugged his headphones into it and toggled with a few switches and buttons, hearing his own radio station come up. With cases under their arms and a backpack on their backs, the two boys ran out back, pulling bandannas over their noses, towards a rusty, silver van with spray painted designed on the doors, sides and hood.
The two pulled down goggles over their eyes and raised their hoods to block out the sun from their skin. Brick started driving away, just as the first Tzigane showed up. Pommer pulled on his headphones, lowered his bandanna and raised the handheld to his lips.
"And with the morning, we've already been run down by the Tzigane. It's PomGrenade on the road today, with my face still unknown. But who knows. You might catch me if you hear me talk. I'd say lets get this show on the road, but the party's already here." He switched off the handheld's microphone and pulled his bandanna back over his mouth. Once again, music flooded his headphones, and he pulled them off, lowering the volume of his radio.
Pommer leaned back looking out the window. Concrete city was still as desert like as ever. Nothing but sand and sky. And a group of four or five Tzigane chasing someone. Pommer sat up. That wasn't something that normally happened. One sure. But five? He nudged Brick and pointed out the window. The blonde boy at the wheel understood and jerked the wheel hard to the right. The van skidded straight towards the Tzigane, and slammed into two of them. Pommer climbed into the back of the van and threw the doors open, grabbing the ray gun at his belt. He jumped to the sand and took down another.
"Here! Come here!" He shouted at whoever was running away.
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