Brusher [bruhsh-er] noun 1. a person or thing who brushes 2. (Sargassan colliquialism) an individual engaged in the practice of brushing: the extermination of extremely hazardous flora, fauna, and phenomena. >START! Sargasso, Southern Countryside Say you wanted to go for a relaxing drive - the urge striking as the sunset's rays struck the beaches and buildings of Sargasso. It was customary for some Greasehearts to go for a drive at the end of a stressful night, cruising along with a cigar, radio tuned to Astro, coasting through a sub-tropical terrain latticed with palm trees and sprawling ferns. Their leaves glowed gold and cast long, and shortening shadows as the wind brushed the driver's arm. Out in such a serene place, there was a small dirt road off the highway and down a few roads, resting between a pair of fallow, grassy paddocks. About a kilometre and a half later through blankets of trees, occasionally giving way to forest - before long becoming entirely surrounded - there was a small protrusion in the landscape, with an antennae and dim lights behind cloudy windows. A well-covered and subtle fan whirred quietly. The front door was not welcoming, to say the least. Upon the door was a simple placard: "Residence of Bootstrap". The door itself was a heavy, steel affair, the size and weight of it seeming enough intimidation to ward away intruders and guests alike, while the concrete construction of the compact dwelling served only to add to the unpolished, utilitarian aesthetic. If one were to try to peer into the windows, one might catch the odd spark, the flicker of bluish-violet as something or someone toiled within, the hum of machinery singing in harmony with the fan's whirr. The antennae detected movement, coming from down the road, a small object moving fast. An identification displayed the UFO as the local postal drone. It must've had a light load, as it only came by once a week - if that. It depended on how much his 'neighbours' in the next zipcodes over felt like getting deliveries. The blue-green of Bootstrap's ethreal eyes flicked toward the notification, the pair of ghostlight orbs scanning over the sensor readings moments after the device detected the intruder. He gave a moment's pause before uttering a quiet, satisfied hum. It would seem that the package was late, but within a reasonable margin of tolerance. It would have to do. The Bezla paused from his work, almost unconsciously manipulating the minute controls within his pressure unit - outwardly appearing as little more than a burnished ball bearing roughly the size of a basketball, but serving just as much as Bootstrap's home as the workshop around him - to roll the sphere away from his latest project, a mote of telekinetic force cushioning the drop from the workbench onto the workshop floor. The sphere pushed aside scraps of metal and unfinished projects, trundling purposefully toward the front door to greet this newcomer. Soon, the drone was within a hundred metres of the property, then fifty, then twenty, then it was visible on a nearby camera. A little white thing carrying a flat package, with claws to grapple onto larger cargo baskets. It came to a stop on the wall beside the vault door, clinging to the wall as the mail slot opened sideways, and the mail got pushed out. A hologram projected from the top of the drone, depicting the operator, sitting on a motorcycle all the way back on the road. "Got somethin' for ya, sorry I'm late." A vaguely familiar voice, obscured by the helmet and the control panel he was using. A heavy clack, clank, and hiss preceeded bootstrap's appearance outside, an inverted, U-shaped cutout at the base of the vault door flipping open in a shroud of fog as the Belza's pressure unit rolled off the concrete landing and onto the dirt path. Ghostly green eyes looked upward toward the hologram, shifting in an attempt to suggest a smile from the mouthless being. "Your delay is within an acceptable margin. I sincerely thank you for your delivery." Bootstrap replied, his tinny, synthesized voice ringing from the sphere's interior. "I presume these are my documents of licensure?" The helmet on the other side nodded, before flipping the visor up. It was a youthful looking guy, blue eyed, a bit pale. "Dunno. I don't look at your mail, mate." "An ethical response." The eyes flicked downward, mimicking a nod. "I advise you to be careful during your return trip" Taking a closer look at the drone, Bootstrap noticed a bullet hole through the shell. The bullet itself was squished against the mail's container, and an envelope protruded, fresh and crisp. "...Though, it would appear as though you encountered some degree of hostility on your trip here. I do hope that such vagabonds did not harry you too much." In the vague distance of the hologram, there was an outline of another rider, and the sound of a two stroke engine idling. "Nah. All good, we uh, harry back." The rider's friend could be seen raising a fist. The operator responded in kind, and they bumped together. "Ah! Most fortunate then. Those who would stoop so low as to harrass servants of the state deserve a sufficiently thorough perforation." The envelope was pulled from the drone's chassis as if by the wind, drifting down to eye-level for the belza before resting there, held by an unseen force. Another simple flick of telekinetic force broke the seal to reveal the envelope's contents. In addition to a folded piece of paper, a grey card with a pink band came out. The card had Belza's name, identification number, and rank: Iron. This was the starting card for most of the Brushers - who consisted of out-of-towners looking for easy money, soldiers on leave who couldn't get enough, or even biologists and scientists. The step down was 'Lead', which meant no prior combat experience or combat characteristics. The letter was as follows: Bootstrap's flickering eyes scanned over the letter before he uttered a trill of excitement, bouncing slightly in his glee with a dull clank. "I thank you kindly for the letter, good sirs! Have a pleasant..." Bootstrap glanced upward, eyes appearing to squint toward the horizon, then panning sunward. "...Morning!" The hologram man waved back, and the drone's mail compartment closed, and it flew away at speed down the road, staying low. The sphere quickly returned inside, the envelope and contents dutifully floating behind as the flap closed behind him, latching closed heavily before a hiss consumed the chamber beyond. The Belza discarded the now-empty envelope into a cluttered wastebin, telekinetically setting aside his licensure and unfolding the letter once more. Sparing little time, Bootstrap downloaded the app to his in-built communicator to link himself to the network before registering his identity and scanning for potential opportunities nearby. It wasn't instantaneous save for the welcome in the application, and the prefilling of his skills and suggested qualifications. A couple of hours passed and the day began to open up, morning and noon passing by uneventfully. A short jingle notified the Belza of a local client in their area who hahad a minor problem in their property. They were residing in Agrary. The tag on the job listing was "TERRESTRAL PLANT - BOOMVINE, AND OTHER HOSTILE FLORA", in white letters, and links on how to deal with the things - and tips left behind by veteran Brushers. A running kill tally,measured by the tens of square meters was somewhere in the hundreds of thousands, over the last twelve months. It typically spiked during the tail end of spring and went quiet in the 'winter', if anything on Sargasso could be regularly called such. "Boomvines. Terrestrial plant, covered in thorns, known for a paralytic agent carried in their trichromes, and a tendency to rupture violently in warm weather or when disturbed. Classified as highly invasive and aggressive to local environment, wildlife and people. Intriguing." Bootstrap mused aloud, reading over a brief article on the plants included within the application. "And, ideally, profitable. Let's see... Advised methods of extermination include fire, heavy pesticides, acid, withering. Skin or soft tissue/surface contact not advised." The client had specified to come over some time around noon to a property a few acres away from the Sweet Fields. With such an abundance of crops, it was no wonder the Boomvine was a priority threat - a farmer's livelihood could be at stake. Transportation wise, the Belza had a beat-up Gernsbeck standing idle beside his bunker, for transporting his body frames. It'd be a half hour's drive into town after the relevant tools were rounded up - plenty of time to whip together something to handle the Boomvines before making the drive over... It was difficult to blind a Belza with science. Doubly so for a Thundercloud. Done right, it could even be called poetry in motion, no matter how little method there appeared to be in the madness. ♫ Thomas Dolby - She Blinded Me With Science ♫ Sargasso, Southern Palms, 9 Grantville Drive Some time that afternoon... The property of one Chester B. Everett, or 'Chuck' as he was known by his mates was tangled into a problem threatening his crop of bananas and peach trees, all in rows. Somewhere in the paddocks, sprawling from a border between crops composed of several large palm trees, a gnarled, sickly green looking mess snaked itself around the ferns and fruit alike. There was evidence of a few ruptures or 'detonations': Splatters of sap, thorns, and seeds embedded in the soil and wood nearby. Chuck meanwhile stood at the edge of his property far away from that entanglement, resting on a quadbike as he waited for his contact to arrive. He thought he'd gotten rid of the damned stuff after he had the place torched, salted, and rejuvinated - but it kept coming back. However, to the Brushing service he was sending his queries to it was a source of income, even though the ideal resolution was the problem staying solved. Ongoing menaces, while profitable - were signs of poor work, or malicious exterior interference. It wasn't the Brusher's job to worry about the causes; It left less time to worry about whatever was put in front of them. In this case, a heavy tangle of largely-flammable and explosive plantlife. The hum of a lorry engine preceeded the heavy crunch of gravel on rubber as an unmarked, greyish Gernsbeck trundled down the road. Looking up from his mobile, Chuck knew this was probably the guy the Brushers had sent out, and waved them towards the open gate. The lorry turned off the road and past the gate, coming to a stop not far within. The engine silenced itself as the driver's side door swung open. From within stepped a being most certainly overdressed for the occasion - Bootstrap's spherical pressure unit was mounted atop a relatively humanoid body, an automaton whose exoskeleton was formed as though it were wearing a finely-tailored black suit. A free-floating hand reached back behind him to close the Lorry's door before slipping the keys into a sliding compartment, the opening sealing seamlessly back against the metallic body. His viridian eyes searched for a moment before meeting those of his employer, the only features on the polished sphere of his 'head' shifting to imply a smile as the Belza waved in greeting. By comparison, Chuck was dressed in flannels, leather-skinned, tanned, stubbly, and wearing a baseball cap calling for the reelection of Rex Tannerman. All the time he spent out in the sun and operating machinery had cut any softness out of this man - the only softness left in his body was reserved for two things: His wife, and his crops. "You the Brusher, then?" He asked, looking the belza's body up and down. "Indeed I am. I am Bootstrap. I presume that you are Mr. Everett?" The Bezla approached, taking confident steps toward his employer and offering a handshake with a free-floating hand. The farmer nodded and gave the hand a shake. He'd seen weirder brushers in his time. "Aight, this way," he indicated as he turned the ignition in his quadbike, and started heading down the dirt roads within his property. Following along in the Lorry, the Belza saw the target spiderwebbed between several peach trees, spreading tendrils into a banana plantation, and choking the life out of the palm barrier. A vague smell of fuel fumes lingered in the air around, as scorch marks on the dirt road where the vine had tried to intrude were violently taken back by the farmer. "I see that these are the offending Boomvines, then." Bootstrap murmured, keeping an eye on the road as he glanced over the malicious plants. "It would appear they are more resilient than I had previously anticipated..." "Bloody oath," Chuck concluded, hands on his hips as he surveyed the pest. Knowing that these things had a blast radius and shrapnel, he put some distance himself, the Boomvines, and whatever the Belza had in store for them - by staying behind the van. "As long as its gone, I don't care if there's a bit of collateral - just don't set the whole paddock alight." Because anybody could do that. "Worry not, Mr. Everett. I will endeavor to prevent as much collateral damage as possible. Is this strain of boomvine resistant to extreme heat? It would appear as though the plant has received a thorough scorching not very long ago, judging by the fuel in the air." Bootstrap remarked, stepping out of the driver's cabin and moving to the back of the lorry. From the distance, Chuck replied. "I had to clear the road." "I see. Quite prolific, this specimen." Bootstrap replied curtly before throwing open the lorry's rear cargo door and stepping inside. An electric crackle snapped through the air from within before the van started to rock, heavy lurching steps shaking the suspension before a much heavier automaton exited from the back. Beveled armor gleamed in the midday sun as articulated armored plates shifted into place, an armored helmet clamping down over Bootstrap's pressurized sphere where the automaton's 'head' would be. The automaton's left forearm was all but replaced by some cross between an assault rifle and a tesla coil, with its right a bizzare fusion of impact hammer and grasping claw. The claw was clutched around the heavy steel handle of a curious implement, connected by cables to the automaton's torso - though the design was certainly obtuse, one glance at the fuel canister and the emitter head could tell even the simplest men the device's nature: An amply large flamethrower, certainly up to the task of clearing the boomvines. Chuck could see the pilot light from the distance, and gave a thumbs up while he and his quadbike hid behind the Belza's van. "You do your thing." He said, while holding up a video camera - because what he figured he was about to see was worth showing his mates. After a brief, experimental blast of flame to judge the distance it would go and an approving 'ooh' from Chuck, Boostrap turned toward the offending vegetation, hefting his makeshift flamethrower. The belza glanced briefly over his shoulder at the farmer - "It would be wise of you to remain behind the van." - before turning back to the boomvines and sending a gout of blazing flame their way, the acrid smell of burning fuel and plantlife filling the air as black smoke began to rise from the vegetation. As the flames roasted the sickly looking vegetation, they thrashed violently as their internal fluids begun expanding - staccato pops and bangs filled the air, like listening to popcorn. A larger, heavier sounding blast from within the heart of the tangled copse caused the ground to shake, and the other vines began detonating in a chain reaction. Chuck was very glad that he was hiding behind the van as burning strands of paralytic fluid flew their arcs, splattering against the side of the van. The Belza could hear a few choice swear words from behind his automobile as the vines contents continued erupting around him and making a mess on his armour. However, even with such adversities, the Belza had no choice but to trudge into the heart of the entanglement and slay it with flame. During a break in the violence, Chuck's head could be seen poking out from behind the van, followed by his video camera filming the action again. The flames from Bootstrap's flamethrower swept over the plantlife in wide arcs, dousing the boomvines in propellant and purging their taint from the area. Regrettably, the job was not nearly as clean as the Belza would have wanted, but the sap would wash off. "That should be most of it. I shall perform a wide burn to remove any remnants, but I believe I have eliminated the biological explosives, at the very least." Bootstrap's telekinesis wiped away a thick glob of boomvine juices covering his eye as he scanned for what seemed the source of the growth - From what he knew of plants, there was usually a central root from which the remainder grew. Eliminating the root would be a priority, now that the copse was free of potential explosions. A firm kick to a tangle of vines confirmed his suspicion - this area, in particular, was anchored below the ground. More globs of plant matter were telekinetically pulled from the Belza's equipment as Bootstrap nodded in satisfaction, taking some steps back before levelling the weapon on his left forearm toward the flame-drenched tangle. "You may want to shield your eyes!" Bootstrap called over his shoulder, a dull hum starting to fill the air, growing in intensity over the next few seconds. Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light filled the air, followed almost immediately by a thunderous crash as dirt and scraps of charred vine were thrown in all directions. Where the root once was, there was only a blackened crater, faint trails of smoke drifting upward from what little plant matter remained within. Chuck's footsteps could be heard crunching across the gravel as he examined the wreckage, panning his camera across the destruction before putting it away. "There. That should suffice. I would suspect that the boomvine cannot recover from a lightning strike. Under ideal circumstances, you should have no further problems, Mr. Everett." Bootstrap turned back toward his employer, giving him a nod as his hulking automaton body turned back toward the van, making his way back out of the destroyed tangle. "Didn't just half kill it, did ya?" The farmer asked as he stepped around the area, making sure to avoid the puddles of charred sap - the stuff was a bitch to clean out of leather. "I was hired to exterminate your boomvine infestation - it would be poor form of me to not do so in the most thorough manner possible." Bootstrap stated, shrugging the armature's shoulders in reply. Nodding and looking about, Chuck turned to the Belza and raised a hand for a handshake, a smile on his face - nothing quite like burning jellied petroleum in the afternoon. "Well I suppose you delivered," he said, "I'll notify your handlers on the success." Some of the collateral damage caused was a couple of palm trees damaged, and some banana and peach crops which were beyond saving being burnt, but they were already harvested. A sap-covered compartment slid open on the automaton's exterior before a - thankfully clean - floating hand came out, accepting Chuck's handshake. "Hopefully you will have no further issues, and you will not require my services again. I would request that you leave a positive review of my handiwork. Should you require any further assistance in this or other matters..." Bootstrap glanced back toward the flaming destruction he had just wrought. "...Unlikely as that may be with regard to this matter, specifically... Feel free to contact me again, and I will ensure that your problem is resolved to your satisfaction." The man nodded back at him with a chuckle, "I'll keep you in mind in case something like this comes up." Heading back towards his quadbike, he figured he could rest easy now, and let the Belza escort themselves from the property. "Y'don't mind if I tell my mates about ya, do you?" It was a polite way of saying there'd be potential future opportunities. "By all means, do so! I eagerly await their appraisal of my capabilities!" Bootstrap replied eagerly, the small floating hand offering Chuck a thumbs-up before returning back to its compartment. "Have a pleasant afternoon!" The farmer replied with a thumbs up as he started driving back towards his house, leaving the Belza to pack up and head back to the hovel. >FINISH!
