Editing Tales from the Wal (section)

===''I Sling the Bloody Electric''===

You hear a war cry and you spend a precious moment looking behind you. The walking wounded have taken up sport and 'Tron weapons and they're charging the Smiler ranks. Some are missing eyes or ears, or limbs and still they have weapons in hand. how can you do any less.

You charge the Smiler lines, even with all the casualties the wretched fanatics still manage to get a few people past the kill zone of your tribes master stroke and so you reward them for their dedication to their cause the only way you know how.

Your people are better at killing, each strike of your electrogauntlets proves that. But the smilers have more people to throw at your tribe. You don't know if your tribes 'Tron will be enough to see the end of this day, but by Tesla you intend to go down with blood on your tongue and hatred in your heart!

The cry rings out among the smiler cultists "ABOMINATION!" it's is repeated and carried and chanted and the cultists drive their secret weapon before them. Greeter Zombies, the Greeters shuffle forward, their eyes milky and white, pus leaking from wounds that refuse to heal properly. Their teeth are yellowed and jagged and their skin varies in shade but it's never quite human, yellow, blue, purple, red, always the color of a wound or infection. The moan piteously and alternate between stock greetings and sobbed entreaties for the sweet release of death.

The monument to your clan's tron stomps forward and opens fire, Sport guns combine with 'Tron and Lightning, Lasers, and Bullets scythe into the ranks of the Smiler forces like a gust of wind air from the Lot itself. Heedless the smilers and greeters charge into the fire with a screamed prayer to the great Sam.

Your friends lie dead at the microwave guns, and your lover lies in a medic's tent far behind you at the corp of your village. You're quite literally the last defender standing. Your people and the smilers have been fighting for days, they're on the ropes and so are your people, either way the Smiler Crusade ends today. 

You drop into the honor stance and bring your lightning wreathed fists up to bear. If you're going to die you might as well go out swinging. Then you hear it, the hum of probably the loudest electric engine you've ever heard. You resist the temptation to look behind you.

The smilers however are staring at something behind you with a mix of rage, hatred, loathing, and fear. You glance behind you and then you see it.

Dozens of shelves welded together to create a box shaped hull, neon tubes welded onto the surface blazing in a kaleidoscope of color, six massive legs that shatter the linoleum of the floor with each step. A pair of armored turrets and an observation blister for the pilot.

You fire and another thunder bolt sounds out the death of a Sam Cultist. Ozone competes with the smell of cooking meat and you carefully place your 'Tron gun on the ground. You're completely out of batteries and you've probably touched your last piece of 'Tron, but by Tesla it was a wild ride wasn't it? You look down at your gloves and you pull up the sleeves of your nut and washer chainmail jacket. You find the activation button and power dial on your right gauntlet, you press the activation button and crank the dial up to eleven, then you do the same for your left gauntlet. There's a brief moment where nothing happens and you feel your gut lurch. You did right right didn't you? You're absolutely sure you accounted for- and then the power field springs to life, your fists crackle with lightning.

Out of the smoke where your settlements produce facing wall used to be come more smiler cultists. Their faces are painted yellow and they have "master crafted" weapons in hand.

"FOR YOUR HIGH PRICES YOU WILL BE PUNISHED!" The Smiler bears down on you, in one hand he has WalCraft Sword and in the other he clutches shield made from some cloth straps and the plasterboard planks of a shipping crate. His uniform is spotless and and his eyes are full of religious fervor.

You take aim with your 'tron rifle and pull the trigger. KRACKA-KOOM, thunder fills the air and the stink of ozone fills your nostrils as lightning bursts out of the wide, silvery dome of your 'tron gun. The bolt of lightning slams into the smiler cultist and he dances to a rhythm played out by the patron gods of Watts, Volts, Ergs, and Ohms. You work the lever mechanism on your 'Tron gun and a battery ratchets out of the weapon and clatters down onto the waxed floors, it smokes and stains the linoleum as you load a second battery into place.

"HHHIIIIGGGGHHH PRRRIIICCCESS" snarls another smiler cultist, this one's fat, he barely fits in his uniform and he has warhammer clutched in his fat, greasy fingers.

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