Bad Apples

Author(s):Thomas Wohlers, Alon Levy, Tom Dimiduk, Sharone Horowit-Hendler, and Wren Steinbergh
Game EMail:jedijacensolo AT gmail DOT com
GM(s):
Tom Dimiduk    tom AT dimiduk DOT net
Sharone Horowit-Hendler    Sharone DOT amalia AT gmail DOT com
Thomas Wohlers    jedijacensolo AT gmail DOT com
Male Characters:Min: 8 / Max: 8
Female Characters:Min: 5 / Max: 5
Neutral Characters:Min: 6 / Max: 6
Total Characters: Min: 19 / Max: 19
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Rim Sector 057, System BD4863, Unlicensed Station 'Flotsam' 23.10.2622 CE:

Two tall men are entering my bar, waving pistols. I can tell who among my patrons is new here and who isn’t by whether they’ve learned to hide how scared they are. I’m the only one who isn’t scared, because by the time I register what’s happening, they’ve already scanned the crowd and know who they’re looking for. I do my best to ignore them. Hopefully they’ll take him outside. He only realizes they’re here when they’re a few steps away from him.
“Johnny,” one of them says.
John Kopacz is horrified. He should be. He deserves to be, for all that he’s done to my other customers. He doesn’t turn to face them. He’s still facing me. Begging. As if I even have any power. “What is it now?”
The other one reaches for John’s gun. John is closing his eyes and not resisting. I suppress a smile. I’m not here. I shouldn’t act like I’m here. They put their hands on his shoulders and take him outside. As they leave, everyone in my bar sighs. It wasn’t me, they’re all thinking.
I think I hear the gunshot a few seconds later. It’s not directly outside my bar -- there have been shootings and executions directly outside and they’re a lot louder. Probably they took him to the unused maintenance bay two corridors over.
Some of my customers heard the shot, others either didn’t or do a good job pretending. None of them is leaving, because all of them know that this isn’t any less safe than anywhere else on Flotsam. At least here by the docks the executions are done by professionals and there are few turf war shootings. The docks are where the drugs are exported, so they’re too important to accidentally shut down because some idiot wants to deal in five more apartment blocks. We civilians all know that we’re not supposed to be targeted. We are all still afraid the assassins haven’t heard that. Another day goes by on Flotsam.

. . .

I try to shut the door, but he has his foot in it, and pushes it open. “What,” he growls, with breath that stinks of cheap booze and cigarettes (mine can’t smell much better), “you think I was gone for good? Come on, babe, let me in.”
This has happened before. I know how it plays out. It’ll hurt, but I’m not scared for myself. Pain can be washed away, with drink, with drugs. A little more won’t do me harm. It’s my daughter I’m worried about. She shouldn’t see this again. She’s upstairs. She knows where I keep the gun.
He’s in, now. I make the obligatory attempt to keep him away, telling him it’s over. “You’re no good for me, Andre, I don’t want to see you again.” He hits me for this, of course. It hurts, but it focuses me. Not while my daughter is here. She shouldn’t be a part of this world (but if I’m honest with myself, I know she is already). I make excuses. I tell him to come back a little later. Finally, he leaves. I breathe relief, he’s gone for now, I can send my daughter away before he comes back, or get the pistol, or . . . I hear a crack from outside. A gunshot.
After a safe wait, I go outside to look. In a storage closet off a dimly lit side corridor I find Andre’s body. Written above it, in his blood, are the words “he won’t bother you again, ma’am.” A cross is below them. Even on Flotsam, angels guard our nights.
But Flotsam is the sort of place where an angel might fall.
Another night goes by on Flotsam.

. . .


Welcome to the space station they call Flotsam. You’ll probably leave the place alive and with all your money on you -- probably. Technically, the entire place is an illegal squat, which means there’s no law enforcement, and nothing in the way of social services. If you want justice for a crime, about the best you can do is either convince or pay a drug lord to execute the offender. The United League of Nations and Planets doesn’t know about Flotsam, doesn’t care, or is paid to look the other way; nobody is certain. But word on the street is that something happened to change that, and now the government is coming, to round up a few dissidents, shut everything down, or just get a bigger payoff, no one really knows exactly. But the people here have other problems, human problems -- trying to get your mom to quit this month’s addiction, learning that your boyfriend is cheating on you (and with a man, at that), or where the hell to hide those dead bodies. What’s one more complication to life in a place like this?

Bad Apples is a 3-4 hour game of murder, crime, intrigue, and family drama, set in a hard sci-fi setting. It’s a game of flawed people in bad situations, desperately trying to make the best of things, and maybe be better than they are. Sometimes they succeed. They call those people heroes. More often, they don’t. The words for those people aren’t as kind. But the best among them keep trying anyways. These are their stories.

Bad Apples can be a very dark game, though also hopeful. Content warnings include: violence, gangs, domestic abuse, child abuse, teens who have sex with older people, homophobia, adultery, dysfunctional families, religious zealotry, and substance abuse. If you have concerns, please don’t hesitate to talk to us about them. Combat will involve the use of nerf guns. 18+ or GM permission.


Player Communications
Game will be cast using a casting form, characters are pre-written and will be sent to players prior to game. Casting form will be sent out within a week of game filling, players are expected to respond to it within one month.

Dimiduk, Tom

Horowit-Hendler, Sharone

Wohlers, Thomas