The Rumble Raid IC

From the first time we ever came into contact with the Rumblers, we were destined to hate each other. Nobody really knows who threw the first punch. Black Masks will always say the Rumblers did it, and vice versa. We're more than just two gangs fighting to the death. We're families tearing each other's throats out. This city is a warzone. Mr. Harvey is an island in a sea of anarchy. We, the Black Masks, are here to bring order to the chaos. The Rumblers seem to find solace in the chaos, though their own justice seeps through at times.

It is not whose justice is greater or more righteous. It's about who's left standing to implement it in a new, untamed world.

---

The Gothic Speedway. Affectionately called "Fury Road" because of the rage it inflicted on even the most casual of drivers. The concrete and steel seemed to be cursed, giving anyone behind the wheel of a vehicle the irresistible urge to drive as fast and as hard as possible. The testosterone pumping through the minds of those individuals, the raw adrenaline, must have led to more deaths than actual wrecks. Too often, people would be pried from the wreckage of their rides, their eyes and lips peeled back in a rigor mortis grin, often requiring their hands to be physically cut from the wheel.

And so, the curse of the Gothic Speedway endured, even as the world shattered around it. The highway became a legendary symbol of what Gothic City used to be, what its power and influence in the world used to mean. In the wasteland it had become, only the strong survived. The cutthroat businessmen of the past were replaced with ruthless pirates and killers. Money meant more supplies, but the unrivaled killing power of a firearm or a mutant lackey at your side was never stronger.

Bruce Denton understood this more than anyone. In the fighting that resulted as of Satar's second attack on the tortured city, the fighting the Black Masks forced upon the Rumblers as a show of staying dominance, he was caught in-between a molotov cocktail and a fifty-foot drop down into some sewer water. The Black Mask gangster would have died there if not for one of the roaming search parties responsible for bringing back the bodies and survivors - however likely that was. But Bruce did survive, his face and neck permanently scarred with intense burns peeling back his skin and flesh down to the bone in some places. How he not only lived, but retained his sight, hearing, and brain function on that side of his skull were medical mysteries. For all intents and purposes, the heat should have boiled his eye, popped his eardrum, and scalded most of his brain matter as if it were an egg in a frying pan. The best doctors Mr. Harvey could afford (meaning the best around, anywhere) attributed it to the both the fall and the miraculous landing in water, no matter how dirty it was to begin with. Infection control was second only to getting Bruce to actually pull through.

Bruce only commented on that his will to survive brought him back from the brink. He wanted to visit this injury upon any Rumbler he came into contact with, kill them like they wanted him to die.

The Speedway brought him a sort of euphoric realization of this incredible desire to kill the greasy-headed bastards. Escorting the armored semi-truck carrying the ten million dollars the Black Masks were planning on using for a charity donation for a local hospital seemed the perfect opportunity to accomplish this. Anything related to the Black Masks was a huge target for the Rumblers, and they didn't have the numbers or technology to stage a live siege of The Patio.

Numerous heavily-reinforced Dodge Chargers and Humvees roared alongside the big rig, its tall chimneys spewing an ominous roar that echoed in the distance. Bruce himself sat in one of the Chargers, holding his revolver in one hand and squeezing some moisturizing drops into his left eye. Radio chatter described movement of several squads of Rumbler "Rat-rods" incoming. Instantly, the marksmen next to Bruce sprang into action and prepared their automatic rifles and grenade launchers. The Chargers were just as bulletproof as the Humvees, armored like military-grade war vehicles.

And in Gothic, every single day was a new war. Bruce had access to Mr. Harvey's best mercenaries for this job, though it ultimately remained up to him how to accomplish protecting the big rig for the next hour and a half.

@thisisgonnahurt:

The Rumblers

Enjoyed having the Black Masks around. While they were taking this conflict dead serious, the Rumblers merely saw them as squares to bully. It wasn't about the money, it was about botching anything they attempted to do in this town. Why? Because it was fun. It didn't matter if the Black Masks were funding a cure for cancer, it's all so that they can put more shine on their precious image. And the Rumblers weren't fans of two faced pr!cks that try to seem different from their true nature. The Rumblers were going to force them to wear it on their sleeve.

They heard the word about the Black masks moving some serious cash to Gothic. The greasers all dropped what they were doing, whether it be whether it was talkin' up a Jane or roughing up any square Joe. Their turf was soon overtaken by the uproar of Rat-Rod engines revving and speeding through the streets. There was easily a few dozen mobile Rumblers racing out of the city, so that they can greet the convoy with a warm welcome...

They were very familiar with "The Fury Road". It was the only stretch where they could have any decent drag races after all. In the distance, Rockabilly of all tunes could be heard getting closer and closer. One blaring radio however, sounded much much closer..

Veronica

Flashed her headlights on, having been basking in the night's darkness on her flat black frame. She was actually right on the tail end of the Mask convoy, but she was cruising like it was a Sunday afternoon with no rush in sight. They would see her easily now, and even easier as her radio slowly cranked the volume to that of a bullhorn... Elvis played, speaking Veronica's opinion on their bullshit charity funding.

"You look like an angel, Walk like an angel, Talk like an angel But I got wise. You're the devil in disguise, Oh yes you are The devil in disguise..."

The tune kept on playing, with Veronica eerily following the convoy at a steady pace, almost like she was taunting them...

The Rumblers

All flicked their headlights on shortly after Veronica. The only difference however, was that the mass of headlights was speeding towards the convoy. The trucks had greaser with grenade launchers and machine guns. A good few of the cars had "knee cappers" on their wheels, designed to flay other tires just by brushing past a vehicle. After the majority of the Rods had passed a certain point, two massive cement trucks met grill to grill to take up most of the road ahead. And of course, as soon as the Rumblers inside had gotten out and fled their pipe bombs inside the cab went off. The Black Masks would need some heavy horsepower to brush past the burning blockade without a hitch.

There was only half a second of nothing but silence and engines revving before the two speeding forces had collided. The heavier Rat Trucks went straight for colliding into the Hummers and Chargers, attempting to take them out of the game early. The cars weaved through the convoy without much trouble, drivers and passengers unleashing volleys of gunfire at the cargo trucks tires. The cars that did successfully make it to where Veronica was cruising they just burnt a U-turn and charged to convoy from the back now.

@the_puzzler:

"Rumble Boys on all sides, their Ace on top?"

"Negative. Bring out the clubs,"

Radio chatter going in one ear and out the other, just like the sh!tty music the greaser-headed losers liked playing on their heavily-modified speaker systems. Denton had better things to do this evening than to fight off Rumblers, but he couldn't avoid it no matter what he tried to do. Easily outnumbered, the Black Masks convoy had to push forward to matter what. Almost instantly, the clatter of tire shutters folding over the hot rubber met a concerto of cracking bullet volleys. Automatic gunfire poured out the bulletproof windows and out from secret cutaways in the armored hulls of the various vehicles roaring down the Gothic Speedway. The infectious adrenaline pumped freely now. Even the normally level-headed Denton could feel it. He was close to his goal in life.

He could feel the itch to kill Rumblers in his brain.

Poking his revolver out his window, he took out one of them who thought pulling up to the side of the gangster's Charger was a good idea. He was just a passenger, about to lob a pipe bomb meant to rip apart the undercarriage, and the driver quickly reassembled his experience of speed and ferocity on the road. Denton reached out a hand and one of his bodyguards placed a Thompson submachine gun into his expectant fingers. Coiling them around the handles, Denton plunged a series of shots from the heavy firearm into the front end of a nearby Rat-rod, piercing the glass and popping a tire. Other Rat-rods saw what was happening and flew out of the way as the one in front flipped over and rolled until the cab was completely crushed.

Denton smiled through his deformed face. "They're leading us somewhere. Keep alert," he barked over the radio.

Sure enough, the stretch of road was eventually leading to a blockade of immobilized cement trucks. Denton could see the smoke even in the bleak night. He could also see that the convoy was short a car or two, but the semi was still intact. The massive machine was guarded like a fortress, with numerous hidden portholes and a M134 rotary machine gun turret on top. The minigun was affectionately called "Lola", mostly because it reminded Mr. Harvey of his ex-wife and he paid for the thing.

"Launchers forward, throwers behind," Denton ordered.

In tandem, a series of rocket-propelled grenades and molotov cocktails popped out of the semi, with automatic shots covering them. The Rumblers were hard-pressed to get a bead on anything, let alone actually fire thanks to the high precision and power of the Black Masks' warmongering game. With the rockets slamming into the blockade, the cocktails were smashed into nearby Rat-rod windows and doors. Some of the lighter variants without doors designed for quick boarding actions were woefully unprepared for a burst of fire that took out most of their passengers in a screaming torrent of flame. Denton sneered at those poor unfortunate souls. F*ckers got what they deserved.

All the while, the convoy was still barreling towards the blockade, which didn't budge from the rockets at all. The cement trucks were full of an undelivered payload, hardened through time and literally weighing tons.

"Save the rockets for the damn Rats," Denton growled, thoroughly unamused. "Just ram the f*cking thing, front and center,"

Fighting to get into a line, the Black Masks vehicles wrestled back and forth with Rumbler carriages. Greaser boots stomped on top of black armored cabs, trying to pry open the luxurious sunroofs to lob their bombs inside. Denton's Charger had the opportunity to become one of the smouldering heaps on the side of the road if this happened, but he pinpointed where the Rumbler responsible was and let loose with a barrage from the thunderous Tommy gun, blasting the bastard into a bloody, mangled mess that scattered into pieces behind them.

Finally getting single-file, the Black Masks rallied behind the semi as its ram was lowered into place like a tractor scoop. No sooner did it make contact with the blockade than it bashed away all resistance, freeing the way for the rest of the convoy to once again surround the precious cargo like a pack of wolves fighting away desperate vultures. The Rumblers were wise to this tactic, but some were late to the party or tried too hard to take out at least one of the gangsters' trucks before the blockade smashed them. Denton counted three fewer cars in his own convoy, remembering a Rat-rod pulling up to one as they were trying to get into a line. A Rumbler jumped out of the ramshackle thing with a cluster of grenades strapped to a baseball bat. Burst both vehicles and himself into a fireball.

He looked at his watch. One more hour of this sh!t, and that's if the Rumblers didn't get bored.

"Almost there boys. Already called ahead, Mr. Harvey is sending air support. And someone shut that damn song off."

@the_puzzler: @thisisgonnahurt:

Riding in an adjacent SUV to the disfigured Mr. Denton, Marco laid back in his seat, taking in the putrid breeze that Gothic offered to him. He shut his eyes, determined to get a bit of rest on a job that no moral man would oppose. Then came the rumbling of the old timey American muscle cars, the so called "Rat Rods", vehicles built to inflict maximum carnage with minimal effort. The of a bygone era blared over their radios as Marco rose from his seat with a scowl.

So these are the "Rumblers" I've heard so much about. How could these punks have killed Carlos and Ricky, much less Teresa?

His eyes narrowed with contempt as they swept over the hooting and hollering greasers, each dead set on seizing the hospital's much needed influx of cash.

Well the "how" doesn't really much matter now, does it? The fact is they're dead, and these flippers are the ones responsible.

His blood boiled as he raked his eyes over each incoming vehicle, each kicking up slight clouds of dust on the ill maintained roads. Grenades began to unleash their explosive payload as the convoy did its best to dodge them, one of the unlucky lead cars plowing into a rat rod's metal spikes before deploying their protective tire covers, flipping several times before eventually being consumed by the flames of a greaser's molotov. It was chaos, it was bloody, relentless, unabated chaos, and in the middle of it all was the rumored death machine, that classic fifties style mask murderer, no driver necessary.

Marco saw it first hand, knew the rumors had to be true. It's frame came to life sporadically, popping out dents, filling in bullet holes. Not matter how much metal they threw at it it charged forward regardless. He admired the machine, in a way. It, like he, seemed unaffected by blows that would normally kill their peers. A devious smirk crossed the fallen Aurelius' lips.

Well then, we'll just have to see who is the more durable of the two of us, won't we?

As he prepared to jump from the sun roof and onto the encroaching Veronica the Rumblers came calling, two leaping onto the SUV's hood. The driver swerved from side to side in an attempt to shake them off, but the pair held firm. A fatal mistake.

As one of the two brought up his m1911 in an attempt to shoot through the windshield he was seized by an arm shooting through the rear passenger window, sending the rumbler tumbling to the street below as Marco replaced him on the vehicles hood. His partner, still holding the molotov, found his arm severed from his body in a silver flash, a terrified scream escaping him as his flesh made Marco's new body whole. He still hadn't recovered his previous muscle mass or density, but a mix up with a few unruly greasers would fix that right up.

His gaze turned now to the other immortal on the battlefield: the confounding, truly fully automatic, murder machine Veronica. As he calmly walked his way to the roof of the SUV the Silver Fang raised his blade to the windshield of the confounding car.

"Come then, let us see who is the greater monster among us."

The smirk turned to a full faced grin as Marco leapt from the top of his vehicle and down toward her, his sword positioned to stab through the car's hood to both steady himself and strike at the demon machine's vital mechanisms.

Truly it was battle of the supernatural: self repairing fifties style vs regenerating monster man.

This is going to be one to remember.

@thisisgonnahurt: @marco_aurelius:

The Rumblers

Were still relentless in their attack. The six greasers atop the cargo container finished slamming down steel bolts into it. In the bolts were chains of folded steel, sharp hooks at the ends. "Is this your first race or somethin' ya fcking squares!?" One of them hollered to the swanky vehicles guarding down below. Almost in unison after the barb, the topside Rumblers swung and chucked their chain hooks well past the cars down below. It found the roofs of a few Rat-Tow Trucks that tailed behind the convoy. Rumblers clinging onto the side tower's back snagged the hooks, quickly latching them onto the reinforces sides. With six tow trucks and six hooks chained to the top of the container, the trucks slammed on their brakes while veering right to left. The goal wasn't to stop the truck, but to rip at least a portion of the container open for easy entry.

With the Charges so closely guarding the semi, a few Rat Rods took the chance to slam right into them and against the truck itself. Their knee cappers would make damn sure that their tires would get partially shredded, all while the passengers in the Rods fired away.

Veronica

Saw the swordsman leap into the air, her engine revving almost as a way to taunt him. Luckily for Veronica, her reaction time was far greater than any person with two eyes. The car had a 360 degree awareness of her body, able to anticipate most things oncoming. Just before the sword sunk into her hood like butter, she veered left just the slightest bit. The sword sunk into a hollow point, the engine untouched. Veronica could have easily just veered even further, leaving this player out of the game and in the dust...But where's the fun in that? The entire chase would only get a few more seconds of nothing but gunfire and engines roaring before Veronica turned on her radio...

♫When it´s eight, nine, ten, eleven too. I´ll be goin´ strong and so will you. We´re gonna rock around the clock tonight. We´re gonna rock, rock, rock, ´til broad daylight. We´re gonna rock, gonna rock, around the clock tonight♫ The tune was blasted unlike any speaker in a vehicle should. Anyone in the immediate area of Veronica's body would be experiencing noise so loud, it could deafen an average human, on an ear bleeding level. As for the chase ahead, it was drowned over with Veronica's radio, providing the perfect boost of the greaser Rumblers. As for the swordsman, she increased her speed to round 150mph in seconds. Her front bumper slamming into a Black Mask hummer with such ferocity it actually intended the reinforced tail bumper. The "stab" wound in her hood healed so rapidly, it was actually forcing the blade out of her.

Ace and Chance

Well...They were preparing the road ahead for something big...