Enter The Cafe Here.

[Tycho]

Reaching into the lost property box again, the barkeep fumbles about a second time before removing a carefully wrapped bundle. Holding one edge of the cotton sheet which wraps the bundle he lets go of the other end and the package quickly unravels, its contents landing on the bartop with a clatter.

Tycho picks up the large hunting knife and sheath he just removed and this time hands the object the Roadkill, apparently the man can't function whislt sober.

"Here you go, if that disco gun fails you, you can always stick 'em with this."

Trycho looks toward the window again and grins, "Let's hope these Raiders are driving some sweet rides. I lost my Humvee whilst in the wastes and perhaps we can even get you a new motorcycle too... if we're not killed in the process."

[RoadKill]

"Hell don't remind me about motorcycles." Says RoadKill. "The last one is the reason I started drinking."

He picks up the knife and holding it close to his eyes he runs his finger along the edge. It draws a small trickle of blood and RoadKill smiles in satisfaction. "It'll do."

[MaxMel]

Before MaxMel could answer the man, a clutter from the chairs and tables stacked emerged and yet another stranger rose from the shadows.

Maxmel was bewildered how she had missed him when she broke in here to hide. But tried to hide her face when he stumbled. Realising he was no immediate danger, not to her anyway.

Realising she hadn't had a drink yet, she spoke up. "Got any beer?" she asking, hoping that whiskey wasn't the only thing they sold in this joint.

[Tycho]

((I thought I should delay the arrival of the marauders slightly just so the three character can interact a bit before any combat begins. I also thought perhaps I should provide a little description of my character, just in case either of you want to mention his appearence in your posts, perhaps you could do the same?

Tycho: Description - Aged somewhere between 30 and 40, his hair prematurely greyed, perhaps from stress, perhaps from radiation. He has stubble on his face, not having shaved in a while whilst in the wastes. He wears a three quarter length, dark-grey overcoat, which is unfastened and dusty. He also wears extremely faded jeans and and a dark blue shirt.))

Tycho nods at the young lady and goes into the back for a few moments. He returns quickly with two beers and a bottle opener. He wipes away the dust from one of the labels to reveal the words "Fosters, brewed 1997" He shakes his head before cracking it open and handing it to her, "It's well past its best and far from chilled but it'll have to do." he mutters as he cracks open his own beer and takes a swig.

He listens intently for a moment and then continues. "It sounds like those Raiders have stopped to investigate something further back on the outskirts of town, seems we still have a few moments for a quick chat."

He grins and extends his hand, "In all the commotion I forgot to introduce myself, folks round her call me Tycho, and I'm the barkeep and owner of this dusty mess, the last drinking hole left in this god-forsaken place. So tell me," he asks, "What brings someone like you so far out into the wastes and into the smoking remains of Bartertown. Not many folks left round here since the Road-Warrior blew thru and destroyed the power plant and many moved on..."

[Oz]

CRASH!

The rotten floor boards of the old place splinter from below. From the fresh hole, out crawls Oz, holding The Roadwarrior's smoking double barreled in one hand and an extremely Archaic Webeley Mk 6 revolver in the other. The oversized tactical googles he wears around his head are covered with the dust and grime of the wastes. His weapons like everything else in the world, show extreme signs of wear. He crawls out of the hole and looks around at the bewildered patrons.

" Well 'ello Guv'na." He says to Tycho. " Say did i happen to miss closing time?"

" Considering the fact you left my bar to rot out here." He replied.

Oz chuckles and breaks open his shotgun, puling out the two used up shells and tossing them aside. He pulls out two more and checks both of them, one crumbles in his hand. He turns to Tycho.

" You mind?" He asks.

Tycho reaches inside his lost and found box and pulls out a handful of good shells. Oz checks them and loads one into his prized weapon. Snapping it shut.

" What about your revolver?" Roadkill asks.

" 4 rounds in the cylindar." Oz said breaking it open. He turns to Tycho. " You don't happen to have any .455's in that magic box of yours does ya?"

Tycho shakes his head no.

" Alright girls and boys." He said snapping the revolver shut. " Let's give 'em hell."

[wastewanderer]

Older man enters the bar with dusty bag full of junk, and yell on bad english "What the man has to do around here to get his drink?".

[SilverRose]

"hey! yo!" enters the room "i will have the strongest coffee you got!"

[Tycho]

Tycho emerges from the back room of the bar, greased rag in hand and gun on hip. He had taken to carrying the revolver on his person ever since that crazy afternoon a large gang of maruaders rolled into town, only Tycho, Roadkill, Oz and MaxMel, standing strong against them.

He shook his head, he never could remember how that one had turned out, having woken up days later, a slug in his arm and a bandage upon his brow. Both the maruaders and other bar patrons nowhere in sight. He guessed it would remain a mystery until one of those brave heros returned, eager to reminisce about the experience...

***

"Sorry partners," he mutters under his breath, "I was out back trying to fix up that hunk-a-junk motorcycle some dude left when he blew thru here a year back."

Striding over to the bar he turns on a small gas burner, fed by a compact butane tank, which in turn heats up a large metal container. Within seconds he turns off the gas and opens a small tap on the container, letting a thin stream of coffee trickle down into a waiting cup.

The coffee looks particularly gloopy, more than a few months since it was originally brewed, but it would sure still be strong. He carried the cup over to the counter and slid it across to Silver Rose.

He turned to Wastewanderer after this, looking at the man who had clearly been waiting here a long period of time.

"If you want a drink, all you gotta do is ask... now what'll it be?"

The man made no immediate effort to answer, either asleep or dead after the extreme wait he'd had for refreshment.

Tycho tosses a menu over to him anyway, the ink badly faded on the well-worn paper.

Drinks:

Whiskey $4 a bottle
Tequila $6 a bottle
Beer $1 a bottle
Orange Soda $1 a bottle

Food:

Gecko on a stick $2
Kangaroo Steak $6
Kangaroo Ribs $4
Kangaroo Tail Soup $2
Dog Burgers $3

[MāШMąX]

I thought u were a girl tyco?

[Tycho]

Tycho sighed, he didn't know why he kept turning up every day, kept polishing glasses and sweeping the floor. Every day for hours he'd just stand behind the bar and stare, waiting for the door to blow open, for some thirsty stranger to stride inside and lay down some coin.

There was still a stack of menus sitting atop the bar, untouched since Febuary of the previous year.

Maybe I oughta lower my prices... he thought. Not that it mattered, there would be noone to appreciate the generosity.

He had a rummage under the bar and pulled out an old skin mag. The pages of which he thumbed through. The pictures were all faded, the edges dog-eared. He sighed again and threw it back. There was a lot of junk under there, no sense in throwing anything away that could be useful one day.

Waste not want not. he mused.

He came out from behind the bar, thinking to stretch his legs. His hand dropped to his right hip and he drew a pistol, lightning fast. He titled it in the light, examining the weapon thoroughly.

Six months before... a party of raiders had blown through Bartertown, looking to steal from the unguarded settlement. They'd searched every building in the d**n place, finding them empty, devoid of life.

One skag had kicked down the door to the cafe, stormed inside looking to loot the place. Tycho had taken him down silently, without fuss. Luckily he wasn't missed when the others took off.

Tycho claimed the man's weapon as his own, a particularly fine six-shooter in a quick draw holster, the same rig which now hung from his waist.

He returned the gun to its holster. He wouldn't have much need of it it seemed.

The town was dead.

Tycho though about putting the gun to his own head and pulling the trigger. It didn't look like anyone would care if he ended up as dead as the town.

Just then he heard a noise, the noise of footsteps. He drew his gun and aimed as a figure entered through the saloon doors.

[Tycho]

Tycho squinted, lining up the gun-sights on the figure who had just entered. The sun was behind the newcomer, shining in through the entrance and Tycho couldn't make out his face.

The stranger threw up his hands when he saw the gun,

"Easy partner, I ain't here to fight!" he exclaimed.

Tycho relaxed, lowering the gun and returning it to the holster.

"Sorry." Tycho muttered, "I haven't seen a friendly face in a long time, thought you might want to rob the joint."

The stranger grinned and Tycho took a better look at him. He wasn't too tall, maybe five ten or thereabouts. Dark hair, greying at the temples. There was a scar near his eye which gave him a constant squint. He wore mostly black, faded leather trousers and jacket. He also had a satchel slung over his shoulder. Just regular wasteland apparel it looked like.

Tycho walked round the bar, watching as the stranger took a seat at one of the stools, adjusting the satchel so it sat in his lap.

"I didn't hear you roll into town," Tycho said, "no engine noise on the wind."

The stranger nodded, "No car. Not much gas around these days."

"Yeah," Tycho replied, "Bartertown experimented with Methane for a bit, but it never took off, not after the Roadwarrior blew through here."

"You ever see him? The Roadwarrior I mean." the stranger asked, his curiousity aroused.

"Yeah... only for a second though." Tycho replied, "but that was years ago."

The stranger nodded, "people still talk about him, don't know where he is nowadays. Could be dead."

"Somehow..." Tycho replied, "...I think he's still kicking around. Anyway, what can I get you?"

[Tycho]

The stranger asked for whiskey and Tycho obliged. The whiskey was past its best, out too long in the heat. The stranger didn't seem too bothered by the foul taste, he drank up happily enough.

Tycho didn't ask the stranger about himself, men talk about themselves if they want to, they don't need prodding.

Sure enough, the stranger spoke after a few more sips.

"I was surprised to see anyone in this ghost-town," he shared, "word is that Bartertown is dead."

Tycho nodded, it wasn't quite dead yet, but for all intents and purposes it was already six feet under.

"Why'd you come?" Tycho asked, his question short and simple.

"Was travelling West, needed a place to shelter for the night, hoped there might be a real bed around, maybe a roof for my head."

"So you came from the East?" Tycho asked, "what's East?" The bartender wasn't too sure of any settlements to the East and he hadn't heard any news for a long time of other camps.

"East..." the stranger asked, "...you don't get much news here do you partner? There's a decent sized town not too far East, maybe a couple of days ride. They call themselves The Ark. It sprang up fast, over the past year or so. Just popped up from nowhere, real sudden-like. Closest thing I've seen to civilisation in years."

"Civilisation?" Tycho repeated, "there ain't no such thing any more. I watched the cities burn, saw the governments fall. Civilisation's dead."

"Is that so partner?" The stranger replied, "these folk would disagree. Got themselves a small government and everything. High stone walls to keep the raiders out and a well-armed police force to keep order within."

"Sounds pretty good," Tycho said, "too good to leave..."

The stranger smiled wryly and spoke, "You'd think so, all looks clean enough, but you look a little closer and it all starts to unravel. It's all a little too clean, no beggars, no hustlers no nothing. You ain't what the government deems 'clean' and they run you outta town. It ain't even a real government, just a rich few in clean clothes calling the shots. Ain't a democracy, that's for sure."

"Sounds just like the old days." Tycho added.

[Tycho]

Like the buzzing of insects the noise began. The sound grew in intensity until it could be determined within the Atomic Cafe that it was the sound of engines.

"Sounds like they're a couple of miles out..." Tycho said, "you invite some friends?"

The stranger frowned and answered quickly, his tone serious. "I apologise partner, it seems I've brought down a whole world of trouble on your little ghost-town."

Tycho sighed, he now realised it wasn't pure coincidence that there was further interest in the town. Whoever this stranger was, it appeared he had pissed someone off.

"Sounds like V8's," Tycho said, "real gas-guzzlers. You've not just pissed anyone off. You've pissed someone real important off if they still control some guzzoline. They ain't travelled all the way out here just to say hello have they?"

"Wishful thinking partner," the stranger said, his tone still dead serious. "You know how I told you about that Ark place? Like I said, I wasn't deemed clean by those folk, not suitable for citizenship. What they really meant was that I wasn't prepared to sell myself into slavery just to be afforded the safety of their high walls. That was the choice in the Ark, work for the rich or get out. So maybe I fired off a few rounds on my way outta town, maybe I shot some of the wrong people. Don't see why they followed me to this hell-hole."

"Just who..." Tycho asked "...did you shoot?"

"Noone real important..." the stranger said quietly "...just their mayor."

Tycho laughed out loud and poured the man another drink.

The engines grew louder and the stranger shifted nervously on the stool as he downed the whiskey.

[Tycho]

"You gonna give me up?" the stranger asked nonchalantly as the engines drew nearer. Strangely he didn't seem too scared... but there was something in his eyes... no, not fear. Hell, the stranger just looked tired, like butter spread over too much bread.

"Depends if you want to get caught," Tycho replied, "if you feel like hiding some place out of sight, that's your business. I wont give you up, not till you've paid me for those two drinks."

"You won't give me up..." the stranger repeated, "but you won't help me out either right?"

"Sounds like 3 vehicles," Tycho answered, "maybe two men to a car makes maybe 6 men total. If they've got guzzoline, chances are they've got guns and ammo too. I've got some weapons myself, a couple of bullets kickin' around too. I know the terrain, could probably set up an ambush, but even then, I still don't fancy the odds. You're on your own."

The stranger spun on the seat, looking through the entrance, over the saloon doors. He sighed and reached into the satchel slung over his shoulder. He pulled out a sawn-off shotgun and stuffed a couple of shells into his pocket.

Tycho frowned. Didn't seem fair. He had assumed the stranger would've at least had a semi-automatic weapon of some kind if he was gonna go around shooting politicians. Maybe he'd have to offer the stranger a little help after all... just to keep it fair.

"Listen," Tycho relented, "look over in the corner there, some of the floorboards are loose. If you lift them up theres a crawlspace under the cafe. You can hide there for a while."

The stranger smiled, clearly he didn't fancy his odds in a fair fight against his pursuers either. He made for the boards and pulled them up, carefully placing them back as he slid under the floor.

Meanwhile the engines grew louder and finally stopped. Seemed like Bartertown had guests.

[Tycho]

There was silence for some time. Tycho spent some time wiping down the counter, and polishing the glasses he and the stranger had drank from.

Voices were heard, calling to one another. Tycho walked over to the saloon doors and peered out into the streets. There were six men.

Good guess Tycho he mused.

They seemed to be searching the buildings one by one, working their way through what remained of bartertown. Tycho leant back, not wanting to be seen.

He saw they carried weapons, semi-auto pistols and a couple of shotguns of the pump-action variety. It seemed he was indeed right to not go up against them after all.

He returned to the bar and went back to polishing glasses. As an afterthought he reached down into the lost property box and pulled out a couple of forty-five caliber bullets, just in case he did have to draw down on those suckers outside.

The voices drew closer, attracted no doubt by his cafe. It wasn't hard to notice that the steps outside were swept, that the windows were just a little cleaner than most. Spring cleaning didn't make for good camoflauge in a ghost town...

The six men breezed into the cafe. They were all tall, and wore matching long overcoats and hats, kinda like regulators from an old Western movie made before the War.

Tycho looked up from the bar.

"You fellas looking for a drink?" Tycho asked. Hopefully they wouldn't just start shooting. Otherwise he was in for a world of pain.

All six approached the bar took seats along its length. Tycho grabbed some glasses and started pouring whiskey. By the looks of them, these men wouldn't have drank anything else.

"We're looking for a man." one of the overcoats said.

Tycho looked at him for a moment. "Fraid the brothel closed a long time ago. You can't even get a women these days."

Overcoat didn't appreciate the joke. He threw his shot glass against the nearest wall, were it shattered into a million pieces, seemingly his patience broke too.

"I'm looking for a man..." he hissed, "...to kill, not f**k. He's about five-ten, greasy haired, wore mostly black leather and carried a satchel. Tell me anything you know old man I ain't in the mood for jokes."

Tycho frowned. Old? Sure his hair was a bit grey after all the radiation and he was pushing forty... but old? That was just plain rude.

"Ain't been noone here for months." Tycho replied, "Certainly not matching your description. In fact, ain't been anyone here matching any description. You're in a ghost town friend, if you hadn't noticed."

Overcoat looked to his cohorts and then around the cafe.

"You sure keep this place clean for a man with no customers." Overcoat commented.

"Old habits die hard." Tycho replied, spite creeping into his voice.

"Best not get smart old man," overcoat said, "you're outnumbered six to one and shooting a man ain't as easy as pouring whiskey."

"Whatever you say friends," Tycho replied, "but I haven't seen a man matching your description and if you ain't gonna pay for your drinks, I think it's best you all leave."

Overcoat frowned. Clearly he was used to getting his own way and was thrown by the smart-ass bartender with grey hair and quick-draw rig hanging by his waist.

"Ain't worth the effort." Overcoat told his friends. They all stood and made for the doors.

Tycho's hand, which had been creeping towards his pistol now relaxed. Seems the six from the Ark was pass on without incident. Bullets were worth a lot in the Wastes, too much to waste on shooting random fellas in bars.

Overcoat almost made it to the doors, almost. For some reason, the Stranger burst through the floorboards, and he came up gun blazin'. Noone would ever know why the Stranger chose to come out of hiding. Maybe he was too proud a man to hide from his problems... maybe he was just tired of running, In any case, it looked like he was determined to go down swinging.

Overcoats' men were caught off-guard and the stranger easily blew two away with his shotgun before they even knew what hit them. The stranger moved with a practised grace and even as he fired off his first shots he was rolling across the floor behind tables and chairs, reloading his shotgun as he went.

The remaining four overcoats opened up on him, ripping apart the cafe's interior with shotgun and pistol fire.

Meanwhile Tycho leapt behind the bar, seeking cover, not wanting to get caught in the cross fire. He waited there whilst the action continued above.

Eventually the gunfire ceased.

Tycho rose to examine the damage. Three overcoats lay dead. Three still stood. The stranger lay in the centre of the floor, his shotgun still in hand. His head looked split apart, probably from a shotgun blast, he certainly wasn't breathing if that's what you're wondering.

Tycho sighed, looked like this mess would take a while to clear up.

The remaining three overcoats looked at him incredulously. Seemed they weren't too pleased he'd been hiding the stranger under the floorboards.

"You f**king were hiding him old man," the leader hissed, "I shoulda f**king known it!"

"What you want we should do?" One of the others asked him.

"Christ, just kill him." the leader replied.

Tycho sighed, cleaning up the blood of four men would have been bad enough.

All three overcoats brought their weapons to bear, aiming them across the bar at Tycho.

They were eons too slow.

Tycho drew lightning fast, fanning the hammer as he raised the weapon. The three overcoats were tightly grouped, making aiming easy.

He shot once, hitting boss overcoat high in the chest. Even as he reacted from the bullet's impact Tycho was fanning the hammer, loosing off rounds at the remaining two.

All three hit the floor as one, blood streaming from their wounds.

Tycho walked out from behind the bar and wandered over the lead overcoat, watching as blood bubbled out of his mouth. The other two were already dead. Tycho kicked the man's weapon away and leant down, the man looked like he was trying to say something.

"..." lead overcoat began, "...how?"

Tycho smiled, "I ain't that old."