Walmart Apocalypse
No one knows what year it is. The calendars have all been stuck on 2032 for as long as anyone can remember - probably a virus.
This much is certain; whenever a business fell, Wal-Mart was there to replace them. The Detroit auto industry was first, replaced with WalMotor. Then came Walton Electronics. Wal-Volt power. The Wal Apartments. Wal State University. Somewhere amid all that, the governments of earth began to fall - no one really noticed. The Wal was everywhere by then. The Wal was everything.
---
400 feet in the air, the white girders of the ceiling gleam above. A flicker of movement catches your eye - one of the topdwellers. You've never understood what they see in living up there - oh, sure, there's less stockers, but it makes it hell to make supply runs. You've got your Rascal out, hot-wired, of course, with the half-back cart and the locater chip fried, and you're on the way to the electronics department. You just hope that none of the other departments have declared Sport on them this week - you don't think you could handle that. Oh, sure, you've got your own Sporting good at your side - a nice little sawed-off model. But you're low on ammo, and you just don't have the barter for more right now - not since the latest Nevergrow incursion.
That's when you hear the telltale beeping behind you. Gunning the engine, you tear off into the distance, as the monolith with the smiley face roars after you.
>SHOPLIFTER. ACQUIRE. RESTRAIN. ACQUIRE. RESTRAIN.
You run off a string of curses that would make Saint Sam keel over with rage, and dart down one of the aisles for housewares - rugs. Rugs everywhere. Figures that they'd restock THIS section today - winter is nowhere nearby, no one needs rugs! And worse, there's nothing you can use to get the stocker off your derrière. You're not going to end up a greeter... not today. Pulling a bootlegger turn, you skid back into the aisle, hoping that the move will shake the stocker off of your ass. It doesn't, but it might have slowed it a little bit.
With no other recourse, you load your Sporting good, aiming for a tire. It blows out - the thing has five more, but the front corner's dragging. You've got a chance. Snapping the overboost, you manage to get across the department line - the stocker comes to a shuddering halt. This isn't its section. It radios off for another one to find you - that'll take a good long while. They're not too organized around here, and the Elecs have taken apart most of them for spare bits. You manage a brief victory cheer... before your Rascal crawls to a halt. Shit... out of juice. One more thing to barter for...
It's cold here. Not frigid, but the AC is always too high. The Elecs like it that way. They say the colds good for the rigs. You have no idea if that's true or not, but you figure it's more pleasant to lug stuff around in the cool, rather than the unconditioned heat of the auto center.
As you draw closer to the Elec zone, you can't help but notice that there are entire swaths of shelf that are missing. It's only when you round the corner to the Elec Shrine of Commerce that you see why.
They've harvested the -shelves-. There's an enormous structure, stretching into the air, boxy and dense. Crackling and hissing noises escape it, and you can see a few Elecs running around, carrying bits. You can't believe the stockers are letting them get away with this - then again, they've probably harvested the stockers, too. No wonder the other departments have been declaring Sport on them... they're intimidated. As you stare, you feel a thump on your back.
"Auto?"
"Ya."
"Got the barter?" You unsling your pack, and dump the contents on the ground.
"Fuses, plugs, and 10W40."
"Good man!" The old timer crackles with laughter, his long blue vest-coat bending in entirely unnatural ways as he bends over to scoop up the gear. Must be the way it's stitched. "Come on in. We've got your stuff ready for you. Gonna need a jump for your ride?"
"Ya. How'd you know?"
"Security feed." You nod. A few of your guys have tried plugging into the camera feeds before - it works, just not too well, and always goes dead after a few days. As he ushers you into the building, your jaw drops. You're staring at something made from three stocker hulls, the Smiling faces ripped off, and extra junk Stik-Walded onto the side. The front is what really strikes you, though - it looks like it's carrying the biggest Sporting good you've ever seen. You've seen nevergrow arms that were smaller - and those just shoot big balls-
"You're not one of those guys from the Path of the Smiling One, are ya?"
"Huh? No." You return your attention to the old fellow.
"Good. I know they'd throw a fit. Here you go. Six stock guns - with the chargers. Just point at the shelf, click, and hit your number. You've got about two months before the system realizes that it's not a stocker command. More if you use `em sparingly."
"Awesome."
"And... a jump cell. Good luck." You nod, about to head out, and then turn back to him.
"Hey. Why did you let me see that thing? Isn't this-"
"Kid, Auto's the one department we haven't had any problems with. I figure this will keep it that way. Now shoo." You do so, silently glad for the logic by which these guys operate. If you'd been in produce... you shudder.
Thus begins Walmart Apocalypse, a homebrew setting that got started when an Anon asked about a homebrew they had heard of called Walmart Apocalypse.
Not knowing anything about the setting except for an Anon's brief description, /tg/ decided to make its own version. Awesome ensued.
After the collapse of civilization only giant stores are left, now sometimes the size of small countries, who's spread heralded the fall and where the survivors scavenge even now, hiding from the heavily armed Stocker robots and the insane Cults of the Smiling Face.
COMMON TERMS Cult/Temple/Path of the Smiling Face/One - cults that worship Wal-Mart, and Management. The smiley is seen as their holy icon; messing with stockers/greeters/etc is a grave sin to their faiths. They're effectively all the same, but claim dogmatic differences that divide them.
Sport - War. The original word has been forgotten, and since "sporting goods" are designed to kill things...
Sporting good - Gun. Occasionally used to refer to blades or armor, but rarely.
Department - Loosely refers to the actual departments; for practical purposes refers to the group of people that live in said department.
Unstocked - A "blind spot" for stockers. These are few and far between, and used for housing.
Shrine of Commerce - One of the old registers in the Auto, Pharmacy, Elec, and Garden zones. Useless (since no one has any money), but kept by the CoSF/SO/whatever.
Stockers - 15-foot tall giant machines of death and restocking.
Greeters - Lobotomized cyborgs that do menial work for the stockers. Ostensibly they greet customers.
Customers - No one. No one has money, so there are no customers. The Stockers/etc do not realize this, and never will.
Nevergrow - Munchkins who run the toy department. Vicious, but playful... in the same way that Jigsaw is playful.
Topdwellers - Ninja-monkey folk who live in the rafters. Some have made working gliders for transit. Most stick to grappling hook travel.
The Stockroom - Where the stuff comes from. It's known that the stockroom is supplied by mechanized trains that carry goods from distant farms and factories, but any attempt at boarding them has been disastrous. The Stockroom is truly Employees Only.
The Lounge - Home to Greeters when they aren't "on duty" (read: sleeping). A cramped, disease-infested barracks.
/TG/ thread here.
The moderately less awesome wizards thread that inspired the original request.