Look: Man, Utility Wear, Hooded Eyes, Stocky Body
Gear: Sawed-off shotgun (3-Harm close reload messy)
One of them has been with you for days on the road. Tell that player Hx +2.
One of them once got you out of some serious shit. Tell that player Hx +2.
Tell everyone else Hx +1. Everybody knows a bit about who you are and where you’ve been.
On other characters turns: You aren’t naturally inclined to get to close to too many people people. Whatever number they tell you, give it a -1 and write that next to their name.
Hudson’s Ride Stats:
Strengths: Rugged, Workhorse
A no shit driver: when you are behind the wheel of your car:
● When you act under fire, add your car’s power to the roll.
● When you seize something by force, add your car’s power to the
● When you go aggro on someone, add your car’s power to the roll.
● When you seduce or manipulate, add your car’s looks to the roll.
● When you help someone or interfere with someone, add your
car’s power to the roll.
When someone interferes with you, add your car’s weakness to the
Good in the clinch: when you act under fire, roll+sharp
instead of roll+cool.
When you and another character have sex, roll+cool. On a 10+,
it’s cool, no big deal. On a 7–9, give them +1 to their Hx with you
on their sheet, but give yourself −1 to your Hx with them on yours.
On a miss, you gotta go: take −1 ongoing, until you prove that it’s
not like they own you or nothing.
If something or someone absolutely has to get from Point A to Point B in the wasteland, there’s only one person to ask. The Driver.
Anyone can drive, but it’s patience that makes a driver stand out. When you find yourself chased by a half-dozen cannibals on motorcycles, or on the run from a warlord’s tank, or running late to a meeting with the mob with a hostage tied up in the trunk, it’s important to remain calm and pay attention. Plan out things well in advance, have a handful of escape routes, and think in three-dimensions.
When everything falls apart—and it will, because they don’t hire you for the easy jobs—you find the calm in the center of the hurricane and you drive right through it.
I wasn’t nervous, but I did feel the cold spikes of adrenaline throughout my body as I raced through the ruins of the city. It was a sprawled-out suburban mess. Raiders and tribes fought for blocks. Even if you owned a neighborhood, so what? Who wanted the world to be shrunk down to a cul-de-sac and the corner store?
When you’re crashing through yet another impromptu barricade, trying to weave through small-arms fire, and make your way out of town—dying for “home” feels very pedestrian.
You’ll flinch every time a bullet ricochets off your ride. Even the dull thuds of gunshots hitting the armor you’ve got welded on makes you grimace. Every hit they take now is something they can’t stop in the future.
Every thing that falls apart or needs replaced requires the next job to pay for it. You can walk away from being a driver, but take that metaphor literally. Being a driver brings you freedom, but you can’t run from every obligation. I just have new ones now.
At least they’re on my terms. Mostly. Usually. As often as they can be.
I slowed down to make the turn that led out of town and drove through the wrecks and abandoned cars on the freeway. The pretense of civilization, the masquerade of humanity you found in the city ended abruptly once you left it. It was just you and the horizon if you didn’t stop until the next town. Maybe I passed a few caravans. Maybe I saw a few raiders and slavers. Maybe I didn’t—you can ignore a lot when it passes right by your window at sixty miles an hour.
It was just you and the job out here.
It was my job. I was The Driver.