"Copy that buddy." Lord said, lifting the bird off the ground. It's propellers whipping into the air as they sang. Lift was achieved and with a furious cloud of dust dancing around the vertibird took to the air. It rose, turning gentle as Lord operated the controls to face it north along I-15.
The still gathered men in the wider intersection at the middle of town passed by his cockpit window affording him a glimpse of the situation at ground level. The bloodied men and waiting prisoners. The scars and wounds of war that etched themselves across the faces of the men and the environment around them.
The vertibird reached a height where Lord could urge it on over the rooftops. Shooting it off over the roof-line back to Camp Golf.
"The moment I get the chance, I'm emptying that bucket in your cot." Lord scolded Eddie, looking down at the beaten pale with the pale-beige and green vomit coagulating at the bottom. Stains of puke still hung over the controls, and despite the dust and blood it offered a disgusting smell of cheap brandy.
The small Asian man scoffed disgusted at the prospect. "Ok." he mumbled unenthusiastic.
Springville, Mass - Sweet Gin
"So how'dcha girl like you get out?" Dinah asked as she walked down the city street. Her golf club propped casually on her shoulder. Dried blood stilled caked itself into the ridges and indents that covered its face. Something of an ironic compliment to the black woman that so proudly carried it.
"What do you mean?" Sweet Gin asked confused.
Dinah turned her head about, shooting the android a fuzzy sort of humored look. She shook her head, giving her a rattling laugh. A sort of grandmotherly laugh, "I know who you be." she said, "An' no one around with arms like t'ems girl. I know yer a synt'etic woman. So how you get out, bound to be know heavy lifter fer sure."
"Well I," she began, her voice quivering nervously. "I don't really know."
"Sure ya do." Dinah said, "So your pimp leave the door open after he bumped you around a bit? Gotta be someone's property."
"You seem to know a bit about me..." Sweet Gin admitted sheepishly and ashamed.
"Girl, you live 'ere an you see a lot of androids like you here." she smiled again, "T'is be a stop on t'e railroad."
"I think I heard that much."
Dinah paused on a street corner. Dropping the head of the club to the cement as she leaned against the side of a rusted out light-post. The over-head lamp bent and curled over into a disfigured curled finger. "Ain't be here ot'erwise." Dinah grinned, "So, how'd you get out? Who owned ya, maybe I'd know the name. I got around a lot too when I was as pretty as you be."
"Oh, well..." Sweet Gin stammered, "I guess I was owned by a, uh, Scrap Daddy." she said, her face flushed red with energetic shame. Her artificial guts tightened at the invocation of his name.
"Oh really!?" Dinah said excitedly, "Sheit, I knew dat **** when he be Eddie." she laughed, leaning off of the pole and continuing down the streets, "Sold me and my old crew a lot of jet he did. Fried my brain, so I can't say I have the sharpest memory of him.
"But lawdie!" Dinah sand loudly, "Did he have a loud voice. And a damned dick to match. I still get sore."
"Oh, that, sounds like him. I guess." Sweet Gin said apprehensively.
"So how been t'at nigga?" Dinah asked, "He still screwing himself on Psycho?"
"I don't know." Sweet Gin responded, flat honesty riding on her tongue. It was probably one of the least shameful things she knew about her former master.
"Ah, right. I see." Dinah nodded, "So you be Scrap Daddie's girl. What t'en?"
"Well, I got my arms and legs busted."
"An' you got new ones!" admired Dinah.
"I can't exactly remember how." the android admitted, "I was in emergency shut down when they were replaced and remained that way on-and-off until I was chained up in someone's basement."
"So someone snaps Eddie's bitch and he pays t'e Institute to fix yea. An' you got pulled out?"
"Feels right by me." the android shrugged.
"And by me." the old black woman smiled, stopping alongside a run-down shack. Plates of metal and plywood hung off the crudely erected structure as it braced itself against the side of a rundown building. Struts rested on the bare concrete or were rammed down the storm drains. It stood, hanging out into the middle of the road, as a kaleidoscope of refuse with a single door set in its face.
"Come on in and sit for a bit." Dinah invited approaching the door, "Perhaps I can help ya out down t'e railroad."
Well I could always just pull one of my typical moves, remake the entire RP, set it back a few years, and help plan out events and stuff with Cuddles, Aaron, and Evan. There might be a few groaning here and there, but the Fallout Universe is a gold-mine for role-playing. It can be become a well organized experience. And so as not to antagonize anyone, I'd collect all of Aaron's Sweet-Gin posts and upload them to the IC section. If we can all agree on the recreation of the Fallout RP; this can become something big.
(Give how I consider Sweet Gin's story-line being sort of "floating" and it doesn't much matter, it wouldn't damage that. But to be honest, I'm curious as to why you would rewind it.)
(We've already popped forward. Fox is also more or less floating as well, along with Sweet Gin, so it doesn't matter as much. Lord and Kabardian, however, are a bit more entrenched.)
A rewind would put us back where we started; from the beginning, but with new protagonists and antagonists. So basically this is like a seperate Fallout RP, diverged from this one.
((*sound people make when they're tired and can't be bothered.* I hate going back to the past of a storyline that has already been lived out.
I have a more unique idea.
What if we make an RP before the Nukes go off? Then midway they go off and the chars have to deal with either becoming a ghoul, a new life in the Vault, etc.))
(But this totally invalidates Sweet Gin altogether. And The Fox.
Frankly if you want to do pre-war Fallout America but stay to the current time-setting as to not totally wreck Sweet Gin or The Fox there's always setting up a character in the NCR capital of Shady Sands. Evidently, it's a model of post-war growth and re-birth with full-out new buildings, a sizable urban population, and tree-lined roads and avenues.
It's like Paris after Napoleon rebuilt it.
Though I can't imagine Shady Sands being like pre-War New York or San Francisco. But it'd certainly be by far the most sprawling post-war, inhabited city with a population of over tens of thousands of people, with a burgeoning economy from NCR's policies. And like the pre-war, everyone'd be walking about (considering a gallon of gas back then was several-hundred to a thousand dollars), or even riding horses. Perhaps electrical trollies ran by fixed-up nuclear generators scavenged from the ruins and rebuilt.
I imagine it'd be pretty damn close to a 19th century city like San Fransisco. Just with laser rifles and robots and Vertibirds flying around. With sections - or all of it - built of Adobe and having a certain Mexican flair in its architecture.
But if you still want to explore having delved into a vault then I would see no reason to run a sub-plot concerning some ghoul characters who were around back then and survived, and do a series of flash-backs to 200 years ago as you run more present-day things.)
The NCR's greatest resource is its vast herds of brahmin, which provides most of the NCR with as much meat and leather as is required. The brahmin barons and ranchers in NCR territories, along with the Stockmen's Association, hold a great deal of sway with the trade caravans and government.
If there was ever a greater bit given for the opportunity to be a John Wayne-tier future cowboy it would be in this little factoid on Shady Sands here. So it's maybe something akin to St Louis as well, but I may need to confide with Vilage if I'm ever to front some basic ideas to re-diversify your choices in setting in the Fallout world.
But there's a chance to be something akin of a post-apoc cattle rustler or ruthless cattle baron. They're all more-or-less housed out of Shady Sands.)
(I feel like some people here are plagued with serious ADHD. Like, on a level that beats my own ADHD problems. How many times have you guys tried to restart this RP just because you grew bored of its previous incarnation? Three, four times? You guys need to make up your minds on something and stick to it. It's not that hard. I mean, even when you realize you're bored with what you're currently doing, there's always a million ways you could salvage the character, either by introducing things that change the character into something better, or by experimenting with NPCs and the environment. You don't have to focus entirely on your character. You could have your character explore new places and people and put the spotlight on that instead, and then switch it back periodically.)
The rattled door closed with a rough clatter behind Sweet Gin as she stepped in behind Dinah. The "home" behind was a deteriorating mess of wood and rusted signs tacked to the side of the walls. Graying and deformed wooden planks lay crisscrossed across the floor, covering the dirt and concrete below it. And even without a wind, the house rattled and groaned on its own weight.
"I would be living in t'e home alongside." Dinah said with a sad smile, "But t'e whol t'ing had fallen in on itself. Or, well, most of it."
"So why be here?" Sweet Gin asked, admiring the cobbled-together shack with a withheld horror.
"Why would I be anywhere?" Dinah laughed, "T'is about a good a place as any. Besides, any caravan that be passin' t'rough stops 'ere sometimes and I can do my groceries then and not worry about goin' to Heaven's Gate. Sometimes."
"I'm afraid I don't understand." Sweet Gin mumbled, scanning the rest of the shack. Disheveled furniture lay scattered over the make-shift floor. In a darkened corner a rusted bed with a stained and charred mattress rested.
"Didn' t'ink you would." Dinah sighed, sitting down at a grimy laminated-top table. "So what you expectin' now after?"
"Expecting what?" Sweet Gin asked, turning to an strangely empty corner. A stand of conduit with a precariously placed outlet sat at the top. A fission battery sat on the floor to the side. "And is there something that's supposed to be there?" the android asked, pointing to the corner.
"Can't pass anyt'ing on you girl." Dinah asked, "Yes, suppose I did a week ago."
"Oh..." mumbled the Android, "What was it?"
"You sure be liking questions." the old woman smiled, "Used to have an working ice-box there."
"Ice box?"
"Somet'in the people before The War used to keep things cool. T'inking the Prots on Fuller street went and took it. T'ey be wanting to kill me for a while."
"How come?"
"Because I be a Cath." Dinah laughed, a broken and rattled laugh. As rough as the charred and gnarled trees that littered the landscape outside, "We just be feudin' for longer t'en I can remember. 'Haps longer t'en the world's been burnt. All t'at be now be that we bot' be hating on each ot'er.
"But I'm too tired." Dinah sighed, "An' too old. I imagine I could pick apart t'em youn'uns enough to walk up to my old freezer-keeper. But draggin' it out be a whole new mess of t'ings. T'ey have twenty young strappin' cracka's and negroes an' I'm jes a woman on her own."
"What about me?" Sweet Gin asked.
Again, the same laugh. The way Dinah looked at Sweet Gin suggested she only had the warmest regard for the young android. And not for anything cruel. She found, if anything, her innocence endearing, "Girl, even wit' arms an' legs like t'em I wouldn't give ye to t'e front door of t'ere home. Or passed t'er church. It just be."
"Oh..." said Sweet Gin, dropping her head in shame.
"I suppose you want to help t'ough." Dinah sighed, "So hey, y'know. I did sort of inherit a t'ing t'at may be of help from an old friend. It be not in t'e best condition, or working. But I suppose it can be fixed."
"No Happy Endings" Charles, -"I- His voice is cut off by her disappearing into the desert. His eyes stare off into the sand storm that sweeps away any existence of Robyn. Charles wanted to yell out with all his might, call her back, he wanted to see her one last time, feel her presence, words could not express the emotions that flooded his mind as he felt himself slipping, slipping away from everything. He feels the slowness of his heart as it's heavy pounding becomes strained. The Dark Ones are all but shocked and confused that they pay little attention to Charles as they rant on amoungst each other. They debate over going after Robyn, who would be next in charge. Charles was separate from them, he only focused on what was happening to him. Bullet holes ran up his body, blood stained his clothing, and even still, more blood continued to fluctuate away from him, out of him. A single tear emerges from his eye as he realizes what is happening... He was dying.
Focusing on his memories, Charles recounts many things from his life. From his upbringing to his encounter with Robyn. He primarily remembered the good moments with Robyn. Slowly, it becomes harder and harder for Charles to process a thought. His eyes slowly blink in the warm sunlight as he takes in what he recognizes as the last few images of life before he's plunged into eternal sleep.
Charles had never questioned whether or not there was a 'God'. In fact, he was mostly mute to religion, paying little mind to it. Sure, he'd considered himself agnostic, though he was foreign to the term, Charles had a basic understanding of what he believed. However, it was scary to him, facing the unknown, never knowing if there is or isn't a superior being. He feared eternal darkness, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, being nothing forever, never returning to what he dearly enjoyed. All the work he'd done would ultimately amount to nothing. This is what he truly feared.
Charles takes his last few breaths, his body goes numb, feeling is lost and it's hard for him to move anything, even his eyelids. All he can do is wait until the inevitable. Slowly, his eyes cloud over, forcing him into darkness. He tries desperately to open his eyes one last time, but the feeling is lost, as though his eyes were glued shut. The last gust of air enters his nose as he breathes his last breath. Suddenly, all is lost, just as quickly as he'd lived, the last ounce of Charles' life was extinguished. He died young.
Light shone across the dusty garage as the low rusty rattle of a garage door clattered on. The rust of its wheels, and weakness of its hinges echoed in the large cavernous space. Much of it had been looted, stripped bare of anything that could be picked up and carried away. A few automobile lefts had been frozen into position. Rusted plinths that held up for none to see their statues of a day long-passed. Ages old cars that had been abandoned and forgotten when the fire came.
At the far end though, a single truck lay on flat ground. It lacked the dust of its brethren. Though the paint had peeled back to reveal a shell of rust-stained metal. The seats as well had not fared well, at the upholstery had peeled back and the foam underneath stuck out in volcanic bursts of grey yellow tufts. The windshield had also deformed in the frame, and slouched from its own weight.
The shadows of two figures danced across its two hoods as the elderly Dinah and the android Sweet Gin looked down at it.
"Am I looked at something?" Sweet Gin asked.
"Hah!" Dinah laughed, walking to the car, "T'is here be t'e whole live of mah friend an' old accomplice in terror!" she proclaimed, raising the golf club above in her head in a sort of battle stance. None that was too threatening given the flaps of stretch-marked skin that hung off her arms.
But Sweet Gin had watched the same woman crater a man's face with the club.
"Once upon a time it drove t'ough." a nostalgic Dinah said, "But a couple t'ings broke off it. Before my friend died t'ough, she managed to replace most it."
"Like?" Sweet Gin asked, perplexed as she looked at the dropping hulk of metal. It was impossible to believe that it had ever moved, given its state. She felt a strong tug of cynicism and disbelief for its past, present, and future.
"It lost a batter, t'ing. Or somet'in'." Dinah muttered, "T'e last one almost went sky high on us! T'at's when we pushed it int' here."
"Oh, I see." nodded Sweet Gin.
"Well, if ye'd like t'e help a old lady out," Dinah started, leveling her club and prodding Sweet Gin in the chest, "T'en you could always do w'at I couldn'. Dig up somet'in to run t'is hulk!"
Sweet Gin stood, considering the club pressed into her breast, and then the rusted bulk. Staring it down, she wondered exactly how much it could hurt to do it. "Sure." she said.
"Ah wonderful!" Dinah proclaimed excited.
"Just, where am I looking?"
"Hell'iffin I know." Dinah scoffed, "But good luck t'e yea."
Race(Human/Ghoul/Supermutant/Android)-Human Ethnicity(Caucasian/African American/Asian/Etc.)-Caucasian Physical Appearance(Body Type and Facial/Picture or Description)-A man of thirty-two, Jeff looks to be in his late twenties, having rather young features. He doesn't lack in the occasional age-wrinkles, including a frown wrinkle, that crop up around his complexion. Jeff is a who stands tall at six-foot three, possessing a rather average build, albeit bulky. Due to manual labor, Jeff's body is muscular, though not to an extreme. He has broad-shoulders and toned muscles throughout his body. As for the facial region, Jeff has defined features such as pronounced cheek bones and a strong jaw. His eyes are an interesting shade of hazel, inherited from his Mother, though most of his looks stem from his Father. Jeff's hair is an unkempt, short dark blonde, swept up in the front. Facial hair includes a slight chin scruff that matches his hair color.
Clothing-Jeff typically wears a slightly modified reinforced leather armor. He has mounted a Rifle Holster to the back of the armor and a waist Holster. Personality(Characteristics)-Jeff is a charismatic man with an upbeat attitude. He's rather optimistic and has somewhat unrealistic expectations that often endanger him. He can be really funny as he posses a rare, sarcastic sense of humor which often makes people laugh. Cunning at the very most, Jeff is a sneaky, quick-thinker who often gets away with stuff. In total, Jeff's a playful and compassionate man.
Karma(Good, Neutral, Evil)-Neutral, borderline good Biography-TBA
Vault Dweller(Yes/No)-No
Faction(Optional)-TBA
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.(You have 44 Points, Special stands for Strength, Perception, Endurance, Charisma, Intelligence, Agility, Luck, max points in one skill set is ten)-Bleh, done with this system
City/Location-New Vegas, Nevada
Inventory(11 Items or Less)-9mm Pistol with five clips, Hunting Gun with two cartridges of ammo, Combat Knife
For however it was worth, there was not much in the way in shortages of repair garages. Though, the task set before Sweet Gin was made no less daunting by the scattered choices of locals to raid. And each one was in some manner, similar to the last.
The already foggy windows had become so choked with dust that little light entered, even at its brightest, they maintained a dull, sickly orange or yellow glow. Rows of frozen hydraulic elevators stood raised above the cold concrete of the floor. Torn pages or rotting fliers littered the shop floor. The paper leaflets glued to the ground by years of moisture, perhaps to the point of imprinting them onto the floor, by some passing and impossible wasteland magic.
All the same, Sweet Gin rummaged through the wrecks. Looking for something she did not know. A power unit, or cell presumably. Though in the infinite nature of things what one looked like had likely long sense disappeared.
Sweet Gin's hunt as well had been peppered with hiding from wandering patrols of the local denizens of the city's ruins. Many of them looking dirty and tired. Their weapons of choice battered and worn. Men and women that had seen better days. Though at the same time, in the distance, there was an uneasy feeling that there was something more sinister abound.
It had revealed itself on one occasion at least while passing down one of the many innumerable and ruined streets. Having looked behind her, the android swore she saw something following her. A black shape that disappeared behind the ruins. She couldn't get a fix on it. A something so vague, that it might not have ever been there. It felt to her, that there was someone on her trail; and close.
She wondered if it had been who ever had spoken to her last night. That voice without a source. Could it be someone looking for her from the Institute?
She pulled out another compartment from a stack of service drawers. The metal guides and bearings screamed loudly in protest for being disturbed. But yielded to the Android all the same. Pulled open to the world, the drawer revealed its contents. A dusty and corroded collection of nothing. Black and grey all piled up throughout the drawer, frosted with a thin film of red rust. Frustrated, Sweet Gin shut the drawer with a slam and the metal pounded back through its guides and crashed against the opposite side. The stack wobbled and toppled over on its inoperable wheels from the android's force.
She moved down to the next one, and began tugging. But it didn't give. The battered and caved steel groaned at her attempts to throw it open. But the years of rust and entropy had cursed the mechanic's storage to remain firm and forever looked. And the fresh deformations she had put into it probably did not help at all.
She stubbornly gave it a few strong pulls before giving up. Giving it a frustrated kick she toppled it over onto its side with a loud clash. And a second one sent it spinning across the concrete floor to crash against some metal lockers. The force of the impact shattered the ancient locks on them, and they creaked open. The note of their tired hinges warbled and echoed through the garage. A chilling and cold sound.
Sweet Gin turned to look around her. There hadn't been a part of the shop she had searched yet. Many of the parts these old cars had had been stripped out at some point. That much she could tell from the loose cables or hanging tubes, or melted steel. Someone had been through here before and picked through the garage. She was the last caller for service.
Never the less to finish her search she started for the shop lockers.
The doors had received heavy damage from the wayward cabinet she had kicked to them, and the doors bowtied out. It was highly doubtful they could ever be closed again. Or if before now they had ever been opened. The shattered cam locks shone in the weak light of that dribbled through the garage doors or the distant shutters she had managed to force open, or the windows with the fading shell of dust, clay, and mud that caked the glass.
Opening the first one, she came onto a cavity of nothing. There had once been a hook there, but it had long fallen off or went missing. The bottom plate of the locker had rusted out and fell apart into a dismal dune of rust and dirt. The reason for the damage too wasn't too too apparent either, the top shelf collapsed on itself, and in the middle of the pile sat a grey metallic brick, a conductor no doubt. Displeased, the android stepped back from the door.
The next one bore some results. With the hook still there, it had the space to keep the dirty set of overalls some mechanic from eon ago would have worn. It hung dropping heavily from the hook, covered it oily splotches. The android went through and ruffled through its pockets, pulling out a switchblade, and a rather faded note.
The note was horribly chalky and faded, the paper long yellowed and stained from the settled oils and deterioration of the overall's fabrics. It looked that even if she breathed on it wrong, it would crumble in her hands. Carefully, she opened it up, it crinkled and cracked loudly between her fingers.
The contents of the note were written in a jaunty and scrawled hand writing. Somewhere between an absolute mess and a having been composed during an Earthquake.
"Mac,
Remember how you said your power-cell on your Corvega was going bad? Well I got in touch with my cousin in Virginia. The one who works for Chryslus. When you're done with your shift stop by my desk and we'll work out a deal. I figure we all need help these days and I did get this cheap. So you won't be shelling out another two-hundred grand for a new Corvega.
C.G."
Now the only matter was to figure out if this CG worked in the same building. With a little ease, Sweet Gin stood up, getting ready to move. But as she leaned up onto her knees a piercing scream dug itself in her ears. A great dragging note that sung high and clear over everything else. Digging and cutting into her brain as it held its note. Coming sharp, and easing into a blurred wave of static that enveloped her mind and isolated it. The noise of the rushing electrical water filled her skull. She felt like she was going to burst.
Hand clenching shut, she crushed the note in her hands. Destroying it in a cloud of dust as she clenched her eyes shut and screamed against the pain drilling into her head. Her ears burned with the sound as it lifted and ebbed in its intensity. Scratching at the audio receivers and burning everything it touched. It was great. So great it worked into the rest of her body and her stomach turned and her groan burned with the intensity of the signal.
She collapsed to the floor, curled against the writhing intensity. Incapacitated and trapped by it. She pressed her hands to her ears. Hoping to block it out. But it didn't. The pained realization and horror dawned with the claws digging into her head: it was not coming from outside. But it was bursting out from the inside.
"STOP!" she screamed. The agony was great. She sobbed into the cold cement. Leaning into the crook of her arm. She opened her mouth to scream, but the torture just hit her in a wave. She bit down on the metal of her arm. Squeezing against the cold steel.
Then it stopped. Cut off to a dull hiss of white noise. Washed out like a great wind. But somehow, still there. The pain had lifted, but left her with a terrifying emptiness.
Then he spoke.
"I was told that the right person, at the wrong time, could make the difference." a voice spoke from within her. She recognized it. That icy and flat tone. Crisp, clear. Her eyes widened and a deep panic set in as she scrambled to her feet, scanning the garage around her. Expecting some kind of ambush, or something. Digging into her bag she searched for her guns. Something for preparation.
"I am not sure if it particularly applies to this situation, SB-6960." the voice continued, "But all the same... all the same, all the factors have been wrong. You have been wrong for escaping. And we have been wrong it allowing you to escape. But never the less. These critical over sights will not be forgotten and will be addressed as the short comings that they are."
"Wh-Who are you!?" Sweet Gin shouted, stuttering. She had found her pistol, but it shook uncontrollably in her hand. She stood up, and backed herself up against the wall. Hugging it, until she came to a door.
"You may not like it, but we will continue to look for you." the voice continued uninterrupted, "Your status is a minor setback to our gains elsewhere. A m-minor setback in the investments of another. You have deeply offended the Institution. As any android that has gone absent without leave has done.
"Realize, SB-6960, that you are property. And you have a value. One that has been invested in by another, and one that I have been informed has yet to be earned back by your investor. What you pursue has no end value."
"Stop it!" Sweet Gin cried, wrenching open the door and ducking through.
The offices were darker than the shop out front. It held a mortal air to it. Something dead and gone. The android though failed to take notice, or to care. Ambling through with her head down, and hands pressed fruitlessly to her head as the voice continued.
"Freedom has no value that can be paid back!" the voice argued, "Your freedom more so! You were not created to do as you will. It has not been programmed for you. It is a false existence and a virus that must be purged from you." it seemed to take on a greater emotion. A red hot offense that dripped with a fiery passion.
"If you go any further than you have then you will put those you have encountered in danger." it continued to hiss, "There will be circumstances beyond your understanding. Unforeseen measures that will ultimately destroy you."
"No! Stop!" Sweet Gin screamed, slamming into the side of the desk. It clattered to the ground with a great metallic crash. Glass shattered, and something spilled from it. The Android threw herself down next to it. Curling herself up. Something pressed against her chest.
"Your only reliability is the Institute! Return to it! You will return in one piece! Your existence will not be whipped out! Once again you will return to the duties you were made for! Y-"
"STOP!" Sweet Gin Screamed, grabbing the object that was pressed to her chest. She knew not what she was doing. But the violation. The violation of the jeering and this voice's access was too much. It was infuriating. Saddening. Terrifying. She lifted whatever it was above her head. She felt a tingling sensation as it glowed with an electric blue light.
"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" she screamed. Chucking the glowing blue thing in her arm.
It exploded.
Mid way through the air a explosion of electrical light surged throughout the room. The room went fuzzy and Sweet Gin's vision blurred from the blue pulse it emitted. There was a buzzing roar that filled her ears, that then died. The colors in her vision inverted, then drained. Then blackened. She screamed deaf and blind as a prickling sensation ran all throughout her body. He limbs gave out and she collapsed like a ragdoll.
Breathing went tight, controlled and conservative and she gasped in the darkness. She felt panic. But relief as the voice in her head was banished. A coarse brush went through her head.
It was raining. The rain had swept through unexpectedly, with little warning. If Fox still had the access codes to the Enclave's networks of satellites, he could have seen it coming with one of the few weather units still operating. But they were revoked when he went to prison, and codes are automatically revoked to deceased personnel at the moment of death to preserve network integrity from curious, technologically-dept interlopers - namely, the Brotherhood of Steel. This prevented him from simply scavenging a new set of codes off of any corpse he found in the field. So he sat with Miguel underneath a tarp on the roof of a half-collapsed building, staring through his optics at the target building. Below them was a crater glowing green with congealed radioactive goo. Scaffolding had been erected haphazardly around it to provide walkways for the Raiders that traveled through the area, and there was nobody to be seen.
Miguel hadn't spoken at all in the last few hours as night fell upon the Wastes again. He was lost in his own thoughts, probably. Of what, Fox had no idea. His family, perhaps. Fox thought back to his own family and sighed. What did they think when he was put on trial for treason? Did they know what happened? These questions never particularly bothered him, however. He had put that life behind him. He had burned all of his bridges to the Enclave. Everyone who knew him was either dead or far, far away. He was being reclaimed by the Wastes. His weapon bore signs of rust and filth that would have been fixed instantly by a quartermaster. A bullet hole in his shoulder plate reminded him of the mercenaries just a week ago. Dirt, stains, and blood smeared over his battledress. He didn't bathe often either. It was simply deemed not a productive use of the Rad-X required to prevent radiation poisoning from the irradiated water.
Another shot of Med-X reminded Fox that he was alone and without guides. He had been going through the stuff more often than usual lately, and light symptoms of withdrawal had appeared whenever Fox hadn't the time to shoot up. He was agitated and restless, with pains and aches pounding on his body. It went above and beyond the typical hardships of the apocalyptic environment. To alleviate this, he simply shot up again and again. He recognized this as addiction - and addiction to Med-X was a very serious thing - but he no longer cared. It made him feel content. Content was good when there was nothing left to live for. He felt these feelings of hopelessness when the drug wore off. He was cut off from his previous life and, while it normally was at the forefront of his mind, it was the source of much of his pain. He had been raised to have a purpose, and at times he felt like he had one. To reclaim the United States was such an abstract and lofty goal: he lacked a road to get there.
Miguel, however, noticed. He heard the pneumatic hiss of the autoinjector and turned his head quizzically. "Are you alright, jefe?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah, yeah," Fox lied. "I got shot a few days ago and I have to take the edge off while it heals."
Miguel nodded unconvincingly. "Your shoulder?"
"Mhm. I need it to shoot."
"Alright then. Are we going to raid this anytime soon?"
"Yeah, yeah. As soon as it gets darker."
"Good. Jefe, is this going to help?"
Fox looked away from the building and sighed. "Help what? I'm only doing this for those crazy cult people."
"I mean help you. Help me."
"You mean food and water and shelter?" Fox asked.
"Si. The basics. I lost everything with my caravan. I need to live," Miguel admitted. "My madre made sure I never quit. I know it sounds corny, but it's true. She didn't raise any weaklings. Everyone in the family made it."
"Where did you live before?" Fox asked, flipping his optics back onto his helmet. His eyes were wide and bright, a piercing gaze striking through the night from behind filthy eyelids.
"Texas. I left with the caravans when I was twenty to find new markets."
"What did you sell?"
"Guns, armor... Assorted junk alongside. Really anything we could find that could turn a profit."
"Heh. Sounds profitable," Fox agreed. He nodded ever so slightly.
"Everyone needs bullets. But some banditos want to take what they can't buy. I was ambushed on I-95 and captured. My caravan was most likely butchered. My things stolen. I have no idea where to begin to look for them."
"I'm as alone as you are, Miguel," Fox said, looking back into the night forlornly.
"My past life is gone. Just like yours."
"You must have been a soldier, jefe. Your armor is too advanced to be anything else."
"I was. A long time ago."
"Not anymore?"
"No. Not anymore."
"Man, I'd kill to have a set like that to sell. I could go back home and become a king."
"Heh. There is more than just the one. If we ever run across another set you can have it."
"Jefe, you are indeed one generous man. I like you. You haven't tried to kill me, either."
Miguel chuckled as he reached for another cigarette. His rifle laid across his knees, pointing away from the pair. He clicked open his lighter and lit the rolled cigarette, exhaling a puff of smoke.
"You smoke, jefe?" he asked, holding out a pack of cigarettes.
"Nah. That's bad for you, you know."
"Well, so is everything else. Haven't we had this talk before? I vaguely remember."
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Do you want one?"
"You know what. I'm probably going to die any day."
Fox took the offer, lighting up gratefully.
"Thanks, Miguel. You're a good guy."
Miguel took his rifle back and pointed it at the target building. Its jury-rigged radio dish was silhouetted against the dark blue sky, obscured by the fog and the radioactive rain. Fox flipped the optics back down and kept scanning for any sort of life. The occasional Raider would traipse through the scene every once in a while, but it looked like the radio station was empty. The windows had been boarded up, but from the exterior it looked like a typical Raider attack. Blood pooled at the entrance in front of a kicked-in door, while bullet holes riddled the facade. The dish was fine, and Fox could only hope that communications gear was still intact. He would know soon. It was nearing midnight. It was nearing the time of the raid. Fox hoped that he could get this done soon.
Camp Golf, NCR Nevada - SPC Andranik Kabardian
Casualty evacuation teams stood at the landing pad, awaiting Lord's Vertibird's landing. They carried stretchers, while surgeons stood by with first aid satchels hanging off of their battledresses. Kabardian's eyes were dead, peering disinterestedly out of his goggles while behind him the wounded soldiers were prepared for transport. Kabardian had endured half an hour of moaning and whimpering while the medical tried to comfort the casualties. The men cried for their mothers, for their gods. Another simply repeated "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" end on end. Their blood sloshed around in the bed of the Vertibird, while Kabardian simply sat in it. It saturated the rear of his pants, red having turned to black with the sheer volume of the liquid absorbed. He felt a strange emptiness, not even caring that the blood had permeated the fabric and was drenching the backs of his thighs. He didn't even seem to care at all about the crying either. The voices of the men had struck deeply, yet there was no reaction.
He didn't even noticed as the craft landed. He was almost dead, hunched over the grenade machine gun in infinite exhaustion. Only the medical's shouting had awakened the loadmaster. Within seconds, the casualty team had boarded the Vertibird with stretchers, taking out the seriously wounded for immediate surgery. Kabardian watched limply, staring up at the serious-faced men as they rushed the people out of the cabin. His face was one of objective observation. He felt invisible: insignificant. The world was seen through foggy and unfocused eyes. Kabardian's gaze lingered on objects even if he had turned his head. It was almost as if his eyes were too lazy to remove themselves from a fixed position. It was representative of his exhaustion as a whole. Everything was muffled, as it would be in a dream. Was it a dream? No, dreams were good. It must have been a nightmare. Kabardian had remembered acutely being awake, however... Maybe he had fallen asleep on the way to the area of operations. That would be the best explanation. The best that Kabardian could hope for, anyways.
They left an arm in the cabin. It was held to a soldier's shoulder by strings of tendon, but it was too weak to hold on. The medical had sawed it off and bandaged the stump while in-flight, since it was too gored to be saved. She had forgotten it in her rush to get the soldier to the hospital. As Kabardian turned back to make sure that everyone was gone, he saw it. It was a young man's arm, barely covered with any hair. It was blown away at the top, a mangled mess of bone and tendons and muscles sticking out like a frayed hair. Kabardian had always imagined dismemberment to be clean, like in the movies. The arm was in a pool of blood, its hand balled up in a tight fist: tighter than anyone could ever make. It was clenched around something... a piece of paper. Closer inspection revealed it to be a picture of a woman. A wife, perhaps. That, too, was drenched in blood. The black and white photograph was stained with red. Kabardian stared, wide-eyed at it. He felt empty. And so, as if on reflex, he sat up from the Vertibird's gunner position. He walked over to the arm, and he looked at it. His boots were soaked in blood, almost a half-inch having pooled at the floor. It thrummed with the Vertibird's engines.
The loadmaster stooped down to pick up the arm with trembling hands. He couldn't help it. He looked it over. A wristwatch - it didn't work, and it was obviously worn just for show - glistened in the cabin lights. A brown fingerless glove, ripped and torn, covered the hand. Kabardian stared at the man's arm, but he did not see it. Acting on instinct, he fulled the picture out of the white-knuckled grasp. The girl was in her mid-twenties, a pearly white smile on her pretty face. Wavy blonde hair, tied up in a pigtail of sorts, flowed over her farmer's coveralls. An infant was cradled in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. She had signed her name with a heart dotting the "I." Emily. "Come home soon, baby," was written underneath. Kabardian recognized this picture. He remembered that the man who kept saying that he was sorry held onto it. Maybe that's what he was sorry for. He let his family down. Kabardian felt an empty pity for him. It was the first feeling he had felt in what seemed like an eternity. But it quickly died down, and Kabardian's tired eyes turned to face the rear of the Vertibird. He walked out of the ramp, holding onto the arm with a dazed air about him. He didn't know what to do with it.
"Copy that buddy." Lord said, lifting the bird off the ground. It's propellers whipping into the air as they sang. Lift was achieved and with a furious cloud of dust dancing around the vertibird took to the air. It rose, turning gentle as Lord operated the controls to face it north along I-15.
The still gathered men in the wider intersection at the middle of town passed by his cockpit window affording him a glimpse of the situation at ground level. The bloodied men and waiting prisoners. The scars and wounds of war that etched themselves across the faces of the men and the environment around them.
The vertibird reached a height where Lord could urge it on over the rooftops. Shooting it off over the roof-line back to Camp Golf.
"The moment I get the chance, I'm emptying that bucket in your cot." Lord scolded Eddie, looking down at the beaten pale with the pale-beige and green vomit coagulating at the bottom. Stains of puke still hung over the controls, and despite the dust and blood it offered a disgusting smell of cheap brandy.
The small Asian man scoffed disgusted at the prospect. "Ok." he mumbled unenthusiastic.
Springville, Mass - Sweet Gin
"So how'dcha girl like you get out?" Dinah asked as she walked down the city street. Her golf club propped casually on her shoulder. Dried blood stilled caked itself into the ridges and indents that covered its face. Something of an ironic compliment to the black woman that so proudly carried it.
"What do you mean?" Sweet Gin asked confused.
Dinah turned her head about, shooting the android a fuzzy sort of humored look. She shook her head, giving her a rattling laugh. A sort of grandmotherly laugh, "I know who you be." she said, "An' no one around with arms like t'ems girl. I know yer a synt'etic woman. So how you get out, bound to be know heavy lifter fer sure."
"Well I," she began, her voice quivering nervously. "I don't really know."
"Sure ya do." Dinah said, "So your pimp leave the door open after he bumped you around a bit? Gotta be someone's property."
"You seem to know a bit about me..." Sweet Gin admitted sheepishly and ashamed.
"Girl, you live 'ere an you see a lot of androids like you here." she smiled again, "T'is be a stop on t'e railroad."
"I think I heard that much."
Dinah paused on a street corner. Dropping the head of the club to the cement as she leaned against the side of a rusted out light-post. The over-head lamp bent and curled over into a disfigured curled finger. "Ain't be here ot'erwise." Dinah grinned, "So, how'd you get out? Who owned ya, maybe I'd know the name. I got around a lot too when I was as pretty as you be."
"Oh, well..." Sweet Gin stammered, "I guess I was owned by a, uh, Scrap Daddy." she said, her face flushed red with energetic shame. Her artificial guts tightened at the invocation of his name.
"Oh really!?" Dinah said excitedly, "Sheit, I knew dat **** when he be Eddie." she laughed, leaning off of the pole and continuing down the streets, "Sold me and my old crew a lot of jet he did. Fried my brain, so I can't say I have the sharpest memory of him.
"But lawdie!" Dinah sand loudly, "Did he have a loud voice. And a damned dick to match. I still get sore."
"Oh, that, sounds like him. I guess." Sweet Gin said apprehensively.
"So how been t'at nigga?" Dinah asked, "He still screwing himself on Psycho?"
"I don't know." Sweet Gin responded, flat honesty riding on her tongue. It was probably one of the least shameful things she knew about her former master.
"Ah, right. I see." Dinah nodded, "So you be Scrap Daddie's girl. What t'en?"
"Well, I got my arms and legs busted."
"An' you got new ones!" admired Dinah.
"I can't exactly remember how." the android admitted, "I was in emergency shut down when they were replaced and remained that way on-and-off until I was chained up in someone's basement."
"So someone snaps Eddie's bitch and he pays t'e Institute to fix yea. An' you got pulled out?"
"Feels right by me." the android shrugged.
"And by me." the old black woman smiled, stopping alongside a run-down shack. Plates of metal and plywood hung off the crudely erected structure as it braced itself against the side of a rundown building. Struts rested on the bare concrete or were rammed down the storm drains. It stood, hanging out into the middle of the road, as a kaleidoscope of refuse with a single door set in its face.
"Come on in and sit for a bit." Dinah invited approaching the door, "Perhaps I can help ya out down t'e railroad."
My DeviantArt, so sexy
My DeviantArt, so sexy
(But this totally invalidates Sweet Gin altogether. And The Fox.
Frankly if you want to do pre-war Fallout America but stay to the current time-setting as to not totally wreck Sweet Gin or The Fox there's always setting up a character in the NCR capital of Shady Sands. Evidently, it's a model of post-war growth and re-birth with full-out new buildings, a sizable urban population, and tree-lined roads and avenues.
It's like Paris after Napoleon rebuilt it.
Though I can't imagine Shady Sands being like pre-War New York or San Francisco. But it'd certainly be by far the most sprawling post-war, inhabited city with a population of over tens of thousands of people, with a burgeoning economy from NCR's policies. And like the pre-war, everyone'd be walking about (considering a gallon of gas back then was several-hundred to a thousand dollars), or even riding horses. Perhaps electrical trollies ran by fixed-up nuclear generators scavenged from the ruins and rebuilt.
I imagine it'd be pretty damn close to a 19th century city like San Fransisco. Just with laser rifles and robots and Vertibirds flying around. With sections - or all of it - built of Adobe and having a certain Mexican flair in its architecture.
But if you still want to explore having delved into a vault then I would see no reason to run a sub-plot concerning some ghoul characters who were around back then and survived, and do a series of flash-backs to 200 years ago as you run more present-day things.)
My DeviantArt, so sexy
If there was ever a greater bit given for the opportunity to be a John Wayne-tier future cowboy it would be in this little factoid on Shady Sands here. So it's maybe something akin to St Louis as well, but I may need to confide with Vilage if I'm ever to front some basic ideas to re-diversify your choices in setting in the Fallout world.
But there's a chance to be something akin of a post-apoc cattle rustler or ruthless cattle baron. They're all more-or-less housed out of Shady Sands.)
My DeviantArt, so sexy
Springfield, Mass - Sweet Gin
The rattled door closed with a rough clatter behind Sweet Gin as she stepped in behind Dinah. The "home" behind was a deteriorating mess of wood and rusted signs tacked to the side of the walls. Graying and deformed wooden planks lay crisscrossed across the floor, covering the dirt and concrete below it. And even without a wind, the house rattled and groaned on its own weight.
"I would be living in t'e home alongside." Dinah said with a sad smile, "But t'e whol t'ing had fallen in on itself. Or, well, most of it."
"So why be here?" Sweet Gin asked, admiring the cobbled-together shack with a withheld horror.
"Why would I be anywhere?" Dinah laughed, "T'is about a good a place as any. Besides, any caravan that be passin' t'rough stops 'ere sometimes and I can do my groceries then and not worry about goin' to Heaven's Gate. Sometimes."
"I'm afraid I don't understand." Sweet Gin mumbled, scanning the rest of the shack. Disheveled furniture lay scattered over the make-shift floor. In a darkened corner a rusted bed with a stained and charred mattress rested.
"Didn' t'ink you would." Dinah sighed, sitting down at a grimy laminated-top table. "So what you expectin' now after?"
"Expecting what?" Sweet Gin asked, turning to an strangely empty corner. A stand of conduit with a precariously placed outlet sat at the top. A fission battery sat on the floor to the side. "And is there something that's supposed to be there?" the android asked, pointing to the corner.
"Can't pass anyt'ing on you girl." Dinah asked, "Yes, suppose I did a week ago."
"Oh..." mumbled the Android, "What was it?"
"You sure be liking questions." the old woman smiled, "Used to have an working ice-box there."
"Ice box?"
"Somet'in the people before The War used to keep things cool. T'inking the Prots on Fuller street went and took it. T'ey be wanting to kill me for a while."
"How come?"
"Because I be a Cath." Dinah laughed, a broken and rattled laugh. As rough as the charred and gnarled trees that littered the landscape outside, "We just be feudin' for longer t'en I can remember. 'Haps longer t'en the world's been burnt. All t'at be now be that we bot' be hating on each ot'er.
"But I'm too tired." Dinah sighed, "An' too old. I imagine I could pick apart t'em youn'uns enough to walk up to my old freezer-keeper. But draggin' it out be a whole new mess of t'ings. T'ey have twenty young strappin' cracka's and negroes an' I'm jes a woman on her own."
"What about me?" Sweet Gin asked.
Again, the same laugh. The way Dinah looked at Sweet Gin suggested she only had the warmest regard for the young android. And not for anything cruel. She found, if anything, her innocence endearing, "Girl, even wit' arms an' legs like t'em I wouldn't give ye to t'e front door of t'ere home. Or passed t'er church. It just be."
"Oh..." said Sweet Gin, dropping her head in shame.
"I suppose you want to help t'ough." Dinah sighed, "So hey, y'know. I did sort of inherit a t'ing t'at may be of help from an old friend. It be not in t'e best condition, or working. But I suppose it can be fixed."
My DeviantArt, so sexy
Charles,
-"I- His voice is cut off by her disappearing into the desert.
His eyes stare off into the sand storm that sweeps away any existence of Robyn. Charles wanted to yell out with all his might, call her back, he wanted to see her one last time, feel her presence, words could not express the emotions that flooded his mind as he felt himself slipping, slipping away from everything. He feels the slowness of his heart as it's heavy pounding becomes strained. The Dark Ones are all but shocked and confused that they pay little attention to Charles as they rant on amoungst each other. They debate over going after Robyn, who would be next in charge. Charles was separate from them, he only focused on what was happening to him. Bullet holes ran up his body, blood stained his clothing, and even still, more blood continued to fluctuate away from him, out of him. A single tear emerges from his eye as he realizes what is happening... He was dying.
Focusing on his memories, Charles recounts many things from his life. From his upbringing to his encounter with Robyn. He primarily remembered the good moments with Robyn. Slowly, it becomes harder and harder for Charles to process a thought. His eyes slowly blink in the warm sunlight as he takes in what he recognizes as the last few images of life before he's plunged into eternal sleep.
Charles had never questioned whether or not there was a 'God'. In fact, he was mostly mute to religion, paying little mind to it. Sure, he'd considered himself agnostic, though he was foreign to the term, Charles had a basic understanding of what he believed. However, it was scary to him, facing the unknown, never knowing if there is or isn't a superior being. He feared eternal darkness, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, being nothing forever, never returning to what he dearly enjoyed. All the work he'd done would ultimately amount to nothing. This is what he truly feared.
Charles takes his last few breaths, his body goes numb, feeling is lost and it's hard for him to move anything, even his eyelids. All he can do is wait until the inevitable. Slowly, his eyes cloud over, forcing him into darkness. He tries desperately to open his eyes one last time, but the feeling is lost, as though his eyes were glued shut. The last gust of air enters his nose as he breathes his last breath. Suddenly, all is lost, just as quickly as he'd lived, the last ounce of Charles' life was extinguished. He died young.
Light shone across the dusty garage as the low rusty rattle of a garage door clattered on. The rust of its wheels, and weakness of its hinges echoed in the large cavernous space. Much of it had been looted, stripped bare of anything that could be picked up and carried away. A few automobile lefts had been frozen into position. Rusted plinths that held up for none to see their statues of a day long-passed. Ages old cars that had been abandoned and forgotten when the fire came.
At the far end though, a single truck lay on flat ground. It lacked the dust of its brethren. Though the paint had peeled back to reveal a shell of rust-stained metal. The seats as well had not fared well, at the upholstery had peeled back and the foam underneath stuck out in volcanic bursts of grey yellow tufts. The windshield had also deformed in the frame, and slouched from its own weight.
The shadows of two figures danced across its two hoods as the elderly Dinah and the android Sweet Gin looked down at it.
"Am I looked at something?" Sweet Gin asked.
"Hah!" Dinah laughed, walking to the car, "T'is here be t'e whole live of mah friend an' old accomplice in terror!" she proclaimed, raising the golf club above in her head in a sort of battle stance. None that was too threatening given the flaps of stretch-marked skin that hung off her arms.
But Sweet Gin had watched the same woman crater a man's face with the club.
"Once upon a time it drove t'ough." a nostalgic Dinah said, "But a couple t'ings broke off it. Before my friend died t'ough, she managed to replace most it."
"Like?" Sweet Gin asked, perplexed as she looked at the dropping hulk of metal. It was impossible to believe that it had ever moved, given its state. She felt a strong tug of cynicism and disbelief for its past, present, and future.
"It lost a batter, t'ing. Or somet'in'." Dinah muttered, "T'e last one almost went sky high on us! T'at's when we pushed it int' here."
"Oh, I see." nodded Sweet Gin.
"Well, if ye'd like t'e help a old lady out," Dinah started, leveling her club and prodding Sweet Gin in the chest, "T'en you could always do w'at I couldn'. Dig up somet'in to run t'is hulk!"
Sweet Gin stood, considering the club pressed into her breast, and then the rusted bulk. Staring it down, she wondered exactly how much it could hurt to do it. "Sure." she said.
"Ah wonderful!" Dinah proclaimed excited.
"Just, where am I looking?"
"Hell'iffin I know." Dinah scoffed, "But good luck t'e yea."
My DeviantArt, so sexy
Gender(Male/Female/Both)-Male
Ethnicity(Caucasian/African American/Asian/Etc.)-Caucasian
Physical Appearance(Body Type and Facial/Picture or Description)-A man of thirty-two, Jeff looks to be in his late twenties, having rather young features. He doesn't lack in the occasional age-wrinkles, including a frown wrinkle, that crop up around his complexion. Jeff is a who stands tall at six-foot three, possessing a rather average build, albeit bulky. Due to manual labor, Jeff's body is muscular, though not to an extreme. He has broad-shoulders and toned muscles throughout his body. As for the facial region, Jeff has defined features such as pronounced cheek bones and a strong jaw. His eyes are an interesting shade of hazel, inherited from his Mother, though most of his looks stem from his Father. Jeff's hair is an unkempt, short dark blonde, swept up in the front. Facial hair includes a slight chin scruff that matches his hair color.
Clothing-Jeff typically wears a slightly modified reinforced leather armor. He has mounted a Rifle Holster to the back of the armor and a waist Holster.
Personality(Characteristics)-Jeff is a charismatic man with an upbeat attitude. He's rather optimistic and has somewhat unrealistic expectations that often endanger him. He can be really funny as he posses a rare, sarcastic sense of humor which often makes people laugh. Cunning at the very most, Jeff is a sneaky, quick-thinker who often gets away with stuff. In total, Jeff's a playful and compassionate man.
Biography-TBA
Inventory(11 Items or Less)-9mm Pistol with five clips, Hunting Gun with two cartridges of ammo, Combat Knife
For however it was worth, there was not much in the way in shortages of repair garages. Though, the task set before Sweet Gin was made no less daunting by the scattered choices of locals to raid. And each one was in some manner, similar to the last.
The already foggy windows had become so choked with dust that little light entered, even at its brightest, they maintained a dull, sickly orange or yellow glow. Rows of frozen hydraulic elevators stood raised above the cold concrete of the floor. Torn pages or rotting fliers littered the shop floor. The paper leaflets glued to the ground by years of moisture, perhaps to the point of imprinting them onto the floor, by some passing and impossible wasteland magic.
All the same, Sweet Gin rummaged through the wrecks. Looking for something she did not know. A power unit, or cell presumably. Though in the infinite nature of things what one looked like had likely long sense disappeared.
Sweet Gin's hunt as well had been peppered with hiding from wandering patrols of the local denizens of the city's ruins. Many of them looking dirty and tired. Their weapons of choice battered and worn. Men and women that had seen better days. Though at the same time, in the distance, there was an uneasy feeling that there was something more sinister abound.
It had revealed itself on one occasion at least while passing down one of the many innumerable and ruined streets. Having looked behind her, the android swore she saw something following her. A black shape that disappeared behind the ruins. She couldn't get a fix on it. A something so vague, that it might not have ever been there. It felt to her, that there was someone on her trail; and close.
She wondered if it had been who ever had spoken to her last night. That voice without a source. Could it be someone looking for her from the Institute?
She pulled out another compartment from a stack of service drawers. The metal guides and bearings screamed loudly in protest for being disturbed. But yielded to the Android all the same. Pulled open to the world, the drawer revealed its contents. A dusty and corroded collection of nothing. Black and grey all piled up throughout the drawer, frosted with a thin film of red rust. Frustrated, Sweet Gin shut the drawer with a slam and the metal pounded back through its guides and crashed against the opposite side. The stack wobbled and toppled over on its inoperable wheels from the android's force.
She moved down to the next one, and began tugging. But it didn't give. The battered and caved steel groaned at her attempts to throw it open. But the years of rust and entropy had cursed the mechanic's storage to remain firm and forever looked. And the fresh deformations she had put into it probably did not help at all.
She stubbornly gave it a few strong pulls before giving up. Giving it a frustrated kick she toppled it over onto its side with a loud clash. And a second one sent it spinning across the concrete floor to crash against some metal lockers. The force of the impact shattered the ancient locks on them, and they creaked open. The note of their tired hinges warbled and echoed through the garage. A chilling and cold sound.
Sweet Gin turned to look around her. There hadn't been a part of the shop she had searched yet. Many of the parts these old cars had had been stripped out at some point. That much she could tell from the loose cables or hanging tubes, or melted steel. Someone had been through here before and picked through the garage. She was the last caller for service.
Never the less to finish her search she started for the shop lockers.
The doors had received heavy damage from the wayward cabinet she had kicked to them, and the doors bowtied out. It was highly doubtful they could ever be closed again. Or if before now they had ever been opened. The shattered cam locks shone in the weak light of that dribbled through the garage doors or the distant shutters she had managed to force open, or the windows with the fading shell of dust, clay, and mud that caked the glass.
Opening the first one, she came onto a cavity of nothing. There had once been a hook there, but it had long fallen off or went missing. The bottom plate of the locker had rusted out and fell apart into a dismal dune of rust and dirt. The reason for the damage too wasn't too too apparent either, the top shelf collapsed on itself, and in the middle of the pile sat a grey metallic brick, a conductor no doubt. Displeased, the android stepped back from the door.
The next one bore some results. With the hook still there, it had the space to keep the dirty set of overalls some mechanic from eon ago would have worn. It hung dropping heavily from the hook, covered it oily splotches. The android went through and ruffled through its pockets, pulling out a switchblade, and a rather faded note.
The note was horribly chalky and faded, the paper long yellowed and stained from the settled oils and deterioration of the overall's fabrics. It looked that even if she breathed on it wrong, it would crumble in her hands. Carefully, she opened it up, it crinkled and cracked loudly between her fingers.
The contents of the note were written in a jaunty and scrawled hand writing. Somewhere between an absolute mess and a having been composed during an Earthquake.
Now the only matter was to figure out if this CG worked in the same building. With a little ease, Sweet Gin stood up, getting ready to move. But as she leaned up onto her knees a piercing scream dug itself in her ears. A great dragging note that sung high and clear over everything else. Digging and cutting into her brain as it held its note. Coming sharp, and easing into a blurred wave of static that enveloped her mind and isolated it. The noise of the rushing electrical water filled her skull. She felt like she was going to burst.
Hand clenching shut, she crushed the note in her hands. Destroying it in a cloud of dust as she clenched her eyes shut and screamed against the pain drilling into her head. Her ears burned with the sound as it lifted and ebbed in its intensity. Scratching at the audio receivers and burning everything it touched. It was great. So great it worked into the rest of her body and her stomach turned and her groan burned with the intensity of the signal.
She collapsed to the floor, curled against the writhing intensity. Incapacitated and trapped by it. She pressed her hands to her ears. Hoping to block it out. But it didn't. The pained realization and horror dawned with the claws digging into her head: it was not coming from outside. But it was bursting out from the inside.
"STOP!" she screamed. The agony was great. She sobbed into the cold cement. Leaning into the crook of her arm. She opened her mouth to scream, but the torture just hit her in a wave. She bit down on the metal of her arm. Squeezing against the cold steel.
Then it stopped. Cut off to a dull hiss of white noise. Washed out like a great wind. But somehow, still there. The pain had lifted, but left her with a terrifying emptiness.
Then he spoke.
"I was told that the right person, at the wrong time, could make the difference." a voice spoke from within her. She recognized it. That icy and flat tone. Crisp, clear. Her eyes widened and a deep panic set in as she scrambled to her feet, scanning the garage around her. Expecting some kind of ambush, or something. Digging into her bag she searched for her guns. Something for preparation.
"I am not sure if it particularly applies to this situation, SB-6960." the voice continued, "But all the same... all the same, all the factors have been wrong. You have been wrong for escaping. And we have been wrong it allowing you to escape. But never the less. These critical over sights will not be forgotten and will be addressed as the short comings that they are."
"Wh-Who are you!?" Sweet Gin shouted, stuttering. She had found her pistol, but it shook uncontrollably in her hand. She stood up, and backed herself up against the wall. Hugging it, until she came to a door.
"You may not like it, but we will continue to look for you." the voice continued uninterrupted, "Your status is a minor setback to our gains elsewhere. A m-minor setback in the investments of another. You have deeply offended the Institution. As any android that has gone absent without leave has done.
"Realize, SB-6960, that you are property. And you have a value. One that has been invested in by another, and one that I have been informed has yet to be earned back by your investor. What you pursue has no end value."
"Stop it!" Sweet Gin cried, wrenching open the door and ducking through.
The offices were darker than the shop out front. It held a mortal air to it. Something dead and gone. The android though failed to take notice, or to care. Ambling through with her head down, and hands pressed fruitlessly to her head as the voice continued.
"Freedom has no value that can be paid back!" the voice argued, "Your freedom more so! You were not created to do as you will. It has not been programmed for you. It is a false existence and a virus that must be purged from you." it seemed to take on a greater emotion. A red hot offense that dripped with a fiery passion.
"If you go any further than you have then you will put those you have encountered in danger." it continued to hiss, "There will be circumstances beyond your understanding. Unforeseen measures that will ultimately destroy you."
"No! Stop!" Sweet Gin screamed, slamming into the side of the desk. It clattered to the ground with a great metallic crash. Glass shattered, and something spilled from it. The Android threw herself down next to it. Curling herself up. Something pressed against her chest.
"Your only reliability is the Institute! Return to it! You will return in one piece! Your existence will not be whipped out! Once again you will return to the duties you were made for! Y-"
"STOP!" Sweet Gin Screamed, grabbing the object that was pressed to her chest. She knew not what she was doing. But the violation. The violation of the jeering and this voice's access was too much. It was infuriating. Saddening. Terrifying. She lifted whatever it was above her head. She felt a tingling sensation as it glowed with an electric blue light.
"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" she screamed. Chucking the glowing blue thing in her arm.
It exploded.
Mid way through the air a explosion of electrical light surged throughout the room. The room went fuzzy and Sweet Gin's vision blurred from the blue pulse it emitted. There was a buzzing roar that filled her ears, that then died. The colors in her vision inverted, then drained. Then blackened. She screamed deaf and blind as a prickling sensation ran all throughout her body. He limbs gave out and she collapsed like a ragdoll.
Breathing went tight, controlled and conservative and she gasped in the darkness. She felt panic. But relief as the voice in her head was banished. A coarse brush went through her head.
And maybe she passed out. She couldn't remember.
My DeviantArt, so sexy
It was raining. The rain had swept through unexpectedly, with little warning. If Fox still had the access codes to the Enclave's networks of satellites, he could have seen it coming with one of the few weather units still operating. But they were revoked when he went to prison, and codes are automatically revoked to deceased personnel at the moment of death to preserve network integrity from curious, technologically-dept interlopers - namely, the Brotherhood of Steel. This prevented him from simply scavenging a new set of codes off of any corpse he found in the field. So he sat with Miguel underneath a tarp on the roof of a half-collapsed building, staring through his optics at the target building. Below them was a crater glowing green with congealed radioactive goo. Scaffolding had been erected haphazardly around it to provide walkways for the Raiders that traveled through the area, and there was nobody to be seen.
Miguel hadn't spoken at all in the last few hours as night fell upon the Wastes again. He was lost in his own thoughts, probably. Of what, Fox had no idea. His family, perhaps. Fox thought back to his own family and sighed. What did they think when he was put on trial for treason? Did they know what happened? These questions never particularly bothered him, however. He had put that life behind him. He had burned all of his bridges to the Enclave. Everyone who knew him was either dead or far, far away. He was being reclaimed by the Wastes. His weapon bore signs of rust and filth that would have been fixed instantly by a quartermaster. A bullet hole in his shoulder plate reminded him of the mercenaries just a week ago. Dirt, stains, and blood smeared over his battledress. He didn't bathe often either. It was simply deemed not a productive use of the Rad-X required to prevent radiation poisoning from the irradiated water.
Another shot of Med-X reminded Fox that he was alone and without guides. He had been going through the stuff more often than usual lately, and light symptoms of withdrawal had appeared whenever Fox hadn't the time to shoot up. He was agitated and restless, with pains and aches pounding on his body. It went above and beyond the typical hardships of the apocalyptic environment. To alleviate this, he simply shot up again and again. He recognized this as addiction - and addiction to Med-X was a very serious thing - but he no longer cared. It made him feel content. Content was good when there was nothing left to live for. He felt these feelings of hopelessness when the drug wore off. He was cut off from his previous life and, while it normally was at the forefront of his mind, it was the source of much of his pain. He had been raised to have a purpose, and at times he felt like he had one. To reclaim the United States was such an abstract and lofty goal: he lacked a road to get there.
Miguel, however, noticed. He heard the pneumatic hiss of the autoinjector and turned his head quizzically. "Are you alright, jefe?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah, yeah," Fox lied. "I got shot a few days ago and I have to take the edge off while it heals."
Miguel nodded unconvincingly. "Your shoulder?"
"Mhm. I need it to shoot."
"Alright then. Are we going to raid this anytime soon?"
"Yeah, yeah. As soon as it gets darker."
"Good. Jefe, is this going to help?"
Fox looked away from the building and sighed. "Help what? I'm only doing this for those crazy cult people."
"I mean help you. Help me."
"You mean food and water and shelter?" Fox asked.
"Si. The basics. I lost everything with my caravan. I need to live," Miguel admitted. "My madre made sure I never quit. I know it sounds corny, but it's true. She didn't raise any weaklings. Everyone in the family made it."
"Where did you live before?" Fox asked, flipping his optics back onto his helmet. His eyes were wide and bright, a piercing gaze striking through the night from behind filthy eyelids.
"Texas. I left with the caravans when I was twenty to find new markets."
"What did you sell?"
"Guns, armor... Assorted junk alongside. Really anything we could find that could turn a profit."
"Heh. Sounds profitable," Fox agreed. He nodded ever so slightly.
"Everyone needs bullets. But some banditos want to take what they can't buy. I was ambushed on I-95 and captured. My caravan was most likely butchered. My things stolen. I have no idea where to begin to look for them."
"I'm as alone as you are, Miguel," Fox said, looking back into the night forlornly.
"My past life is gone. Just like yours."
"You must have been a soldier, jefe. Your armor is too advanced to be anything else."
"I was. A long time ago."
"Not anymore?"
"No. Not anymore."
"Man, I'd kill to have a set like that to sell. I could go back home and become a king."
"Heh. There is more than just the one. If we ever run across another set you can have it."
"Jefe, you are indeed one generous man. I like you. You haven't tried to kill me, either."
Miguel chuckled as he reached for another cigarette. His rifle laid across his knees, pointing away from the pair. He clicked open his lighter and lit the rolled cigarette, exhaling a puff of smoke.
"You smoke, jefe?" he asked, holding out a pack of cigarettes.
"Nah. That's bad for you, you know."
"Well, so is everything else. Haven't we had this talk before? I vaguely remember."
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Do you want one?"
"You know what. I'm probably going to die any day."
Fox took the offer, lighting up gratefully.
"Thanks, Miguel. You're a good guy."
Miguel took his rifle back and pointed it at the target building. Its jury-rigged radio dish was silhouetted against the dark blue sky, obscured by the fog and the radioactive rain. Fox flipped the optics back down and kept scanning for any sort of life. The occasional Raider would traipse through the scene every once in a while, but it looked like the radio station was empty. The windows had been boarded up, but from the exterior it looked like a typical Raider attack. Blood pooled at the entrance in front of a kicked-in door, while bullet holes riddled the facade. The dish was fine, and Fox could only hope that communications gear was still intact. He would know soon. It was nearing midnight. It was nearing the time of the raid. Fox hoped that he could get this done soon.
Camp Golf, NCR Nevada - SPC Andranik Kabardian
Casualty evacuation teams stood at the landing pad, awaiting Lord's Vertibird's landing. They carried stretchers, while surgeons stood by with first aid satchels hanging off of their battledresses. Kabardian's eyes were dead, peering disinterestedly out of his goggles while behind him the wounded soldiers were prepared for transport. Kabardian had endured half an hour of moaning and whimpering while the medical tried to comfort the casualties. The men cried for their mothers, for their gods. Another simply repeated "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" end on end. Their blood sloshed around in the bed of the Vertibird, while Kabardian simply sat in it. It saturated the rear of his pants, red having turned to black with the sheer volume of the liquid absorbed. He felt a strange emptiness, not even caring that the blood had permeated the fabric and was drenching the backs of his thighs. He didn't even seem to care at all about the crying either. The voices of the men had struck deeply, yet there was no reaction.
He didn't even noticed as the craft landed. He was almost dead, hunched over the grenade machine gun in infinite exhaustion. Only the medical's shouting had awakened the loadmaster. Within seconds, the casualty team had boarded the Vertibird with stretchers, taking out the seriously wounded for immediate surgery. Kabardian watched limply, staring up at the serious-faced men as they rushed the people out of the cabin. His face was one of objective observation. He felt invisible: insignificant. The world was seen through foggy and unfocused eyes. Kabardian's gaze lingered on objects even if he had turned his head. It was almost as if his eyes were too lazy to remove themselves from a fixed position. It was representative of his exhaustion as a whole. Everything was muffled, as it would be in a dream. Was it a dream? No, dreams were good. It must have been a nightmare. Kabardian had remembered acutely being awake, however... Maybe he had fallen asleep on the way to the area of operations. That would be the best explanation. The best that Kabardian could hope for, anyways.
They left an arm in the cabin. It was held to a soldier's shoulder by strings of tendon, but it was too weak to hold on. The medical had sawed it off and bandaged the stump while in-flight, since it was too gored to be saved. She had forgotten it in her rush to get the soldier to the hospital. As Kabardian turned back to make sure that everyone was gone, he saw it. It was a young man's arm, barely covered with any hair. It was blown away at the top, a mangled mess of bone and tendons and muscles sticking out like a frayed hair. Kabardian had always imagined dismemberment to be clean, like in the movies. The arm was in a pool of blood, its hand balled up in a tight fist: tighter than anyone could ever make. It was clenched around something... a piece of paper. Closer inspection revealed it to be a picture of a woman. A wife, perhaps. That, too, was drenched in blood. The black and white photograph was stained with red. Kabardian stared, wide-eyed at it. He felt empty. And so, as if on reflex, he sat up from the Vertibird's gunner position. He walked over to the arm, and he looked at it. His boots were soaked in blood, almost a half-inch having pooled at the floor. It thrummed with the Vertibird's engines.
The loadmaster stooped down to pick up the arm with trembling hands. He couldn't help it. He looked it over. A wristwatch - it didn't work, and it was obviously worn just for show - glistened in the cabin lights. A brown fingerless glove, ripped and torn, covered the hand. Kabardian stared at the man's arm, but he did not see it. Acting on instinct, he fulled the picture out of the white-knuckled grasp. The girl was in her mid-twenties, a pearly white smile on her pretty face. Wavy blonde hair, tied up in a pigtail of sorts, flowed over her farmer's coveralls. An infant was cradled in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. She had signed her name with a heart dotting the "I." Emily. "Come home soon, baby," was written underneath. Kabardian recognized this picture. He remembered that the man who kept saying that he was sorry held onto it. Maybe that's what he was sorry for. He let his family down. Kabardian felt an empty pity for him. It was the first feeling he had felt in what seemed like an eternity. But it quickly died down, and Kabardian's tired eyes turned to face the rear of the Vertibird. He walked out of the ramp, holding onto the arm with a dazed air about him. He didn't know what to do with it.