Scraped from here.
Chapter 1
Snip 1
Snip 2
Chapter 1 (Snip 1)
The floorboards...
Chapter 1
Snip 1
Snip 2
Chapter 1 (Snip 1)
The floorboards...
Fortunate Son (Fallout: New Vegas SI)
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Xeno Major
Sensei Rower
Scraped from here.
Chapter 1
Snip 1
Snip 2
Chapter 1 (Snip 1)
The floorboards creak as I shift in the bed. For a brief moment, I twitch, and the creaking pauses.
A footstep thunks dully against the wooden boards, and then another. Boots, with a heel, I think – because the footsteps are louder than a normal shoe.
"Well, how 'bout that? Easy, now, don't try to sit up," the intruder says, in familiar male voice, as I open my eyes.
My eyes blur, and for a few seconds they itch as my contacts readjust.
"Where am I?" I croak hoarsely, my throat parched and dry.
"Here, have some water," the man says, pressing a plastic water bottle into my hand.
I swig some immediately, then gag as the water rushes into my mouth. I swallow, then drink a little more, swishing it around in my mouth as I blink rapidly, settling my contacts in properly.
Turning my head, I glance over to see a military-surplus cot next to mine. Someone is lying there; their head swaddled in layers of dirty white bandages and clothed raggedy underwear.
Beneath the other person is an old, 1950's style poster, faded with age and tacked up on a battered wooden wall. 'The Guy Who Came Back' is the prominently displayed title.
Next to the poster is the man, sitting on a small stool and clad in worn rustic clothing, a washed-out red kerchief around his neck. His bald head gleams with the light trickling in from the boarded up windows, and a well-trimmed white mustache adorns his lip.
My eyes widen in horrified recognition as the man continues to speak.
"I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings."
Xxxx
An hour later, I'm sitting at Doc Mitchell's kitchen table, watching Michael Hogan cook me a gecko steak.
"You're lucky those men didn't find you," Doc Mitchell says nonchalantly, as I sip at my bottle of water. "I'm still patchin' up that poor girl in the other room. Dunno how she survived a bullet to the head, but she should be up in a few hours."
"Those men?" I repeat quietly, glancing up at the doctor.
"Yeah. When Victor brought the girl over, he had you slung over the arm," Doc Mitchell shrugs. "At first, I thought you'd been shot too, but I guess not. Still, you had a nasty bump on your head. I guess you got knocked unconscious by one of those men, but that still leaves the question of why they didn't just shoot you too."
The doctor sets the gecko steak down in front of me, then sits down, giving me a hard look.
"They'd already buried one body, so why not bury another? Victor's story's left me with a might bit of confusion regarding you – but as far as I can tell, it ain't no business of mine."
"Trust me," I reply sourly, "you're not the only one confused right now."
Doc Mitchell chuckled.
"I expect not. Still, I patched you up as best I could – it's what I'm here for – but don't worry about payment. All I did was give you a bed, and I'm not running a hotel, here, so we're square," Doc Mitchell informed me, nodding frankly.
"Thanks," I say, a little touched. "Not often you find people who are so kind."
He chuckled again, then coughed.
"Well, actually, it's 'cause I noticed you didn't have any caps on you. No point in asking for payment if 'n you're not likely to get any," he admitted.
Unable to help myself, I laugh.
Xxxx
Dust and sand whirl by as the pre-dawn breeze picks up, whistling through the dark, still-slumbering town of Goodsprings. Carried along by the wind, the sand bites at my neck, scratching away at my exposed skin.
Frowning, I try to ignore the sensation, but it's hard.
The Mojave Wasteland is, sadly, a desert. Having grown up in a coastal rainforest, I was more used to rainstorms than sand – although I had travelled to some deserts before. Already, I could feel the corners of my mouth drying up; water deprivation was probably going to be a major problem, I could see.
That is, if I decided to stay in the Mojave.
After all, I was a Washington boy – the State, not the District. Why stay in the desert when I could just return to Seattle, or better yet, the Coast?
Up there, I would know what was edible, where to scavenge, and how to survive. Sure, the rain and storms would make for hard winters, but the growing season would provide me with a ridiculous amount of food; unlike eking out a miserable amount of food from the desert, it would be easy to cultivate abundant crop yield in western Washington.
Hell, I might even be able to find a post-apocalyptic version of my house. After all, most of my town was built prior to the Fifties – a lot of old houses and buildings, along with a large amount of logging mills.
Most importantly, up there, I could retreat to the labyrinth of logging roads that crisscrossed the Coast – roads that led deep into the mountains, where I could live out my life safely, and with plenty of comfort.
Absently, I pulled out a tan bandana from my backpack, wrapping it carefully around my neck, tying a basic knot around the front to secure it. The fabric was only cheap cotton, and it wouldn't last long. It was no army-issue shemagh, but it would do for now.
Carefully, I zipped up my backpack, making sure to note what supplies were inside. Some of the stuff was useless, or soon to be, but that didn't matter. My passport, for instance, was not useful. My wallet, full of U.S. dollars, might just be – that is, if pre-War money still resembles non-Fallout money. Other than that, the legal notepad could be useful, even if only for starting fires. My laptop was dead weight without a compatible power source. Deodorant… was a nice touch, but probably would be used up soon enough.
Sunglasses, still in their case, would also be required in the sun-bleached desert. My pocketknife was of high quality, and would serve me well, so I clipped it on to the side of my worn khaki climbing pants. The thick roll of heavy-duty duct tape would probably be invaluable. My black hardshell jacket was of the completely wrong coloration for the desert, but it was perfect for sudden rainfall and was thin enough that it didn't take up much space in my pack anyway.
I frown as I regarded the abysmal state of my supplies. Had I really thought that small amount of emergency gear would suffice back home? Granted, I hadn't been planning on making a trip or anything like that, but I always tried to have emergency supplies handy, just in case. When I got back, I swore, I was going to make sure to carry ample supplies.
My heart sank as I play those last thoughts back. When I got back… As far as I remember, there was no way that the Mojave would have the kind of tech to send somebody across dimensions.
So why was I here, then? Had I been plucked away as a joke? Taken away merely for the amusement of some kind of random, omnipotent being?
My fists clench, and I struggle not to slam a punch into the wooden railing of Doc Mitchell's front porch.
God, I hope not.
"Well howdy there, partner!" calls a warm, yet strange voice.
I look up, and come face-to-screen with a robot.
"Woah!" I yelp, stumbling back a step and tripping over Doc Mitchell's rocking chair – my feet go out beneath me, and my back smashes into the ground with a thud.
"Sorry, didn't mean to scare ya," the robot apologizes, as I groan. "I saw you were up and about, so I thought I might swing on by and see how you were doin'."
"I'm… alright, thanks," I reply slowly, wincing as I slowly get back to my feet. "You must be… Victor, right? Doc Mitchell said you brought me here."
"That I did, though I can't rightly say how you came to be here – all's I did was bring you to the good doc," Victor replies, rolling backwards slightly and 'shrugging' his pauldrons.
"How I came to be here?" I repeat, arms tensing as adrenaline starts to flood my system. "I'd like to think I came here the same way we all did… conception, birth, childhood… you know, the human stuff."
Victor chuckles, and his long cylindrical arms swing back and forth, while I cautiously watch out for the gatling laser mounted in the right one – at least, I think it's the right one. I could be the left.
"Well, I'm sure ya did, partner, but I remember seein' a big glowin' light on that there cemetery hill, an' then you just popped on out!" Victor tells me casually, as my eyes widen. "C'mon, I'll show ya where it happened!"
"No… uh, no thanks, Victor," I mumble, stepping backwards. "I think I… I should go inside, now."
Victor's right arm shoots out, stopping, snake-like, just before it latched onto my leg.
Terrified, I glance down, then back up, as Victor's jovial cowboy face shifts, turning into a disapproving glare.
"I'm 'fraid I can't let you do that, partner," Victor says slowly, pointing his left arm at me, the panels pulling back to reveal the ominous barrel of his gatling laser. "I just got word from the boss – 'pparently he wants to talk to you. Seein' as cemetery hill has the best reception from New Vegas, I think we'd best get going."
I nod shakily, grabbing my backpack and hesitantly following the rolling Securitron out, into the biting wind.
Xxxx
Our short trek to the cemetery was scenic, I'll admit, but when Victor's laser seared a gecko into a pile of ashes, all thoughts of enjoying the scenery flew from my head.
The temperature isn't so bad, but it's slowly starting to rise as the sun's first rays start to peak over the horizon. Up ahead, I can see the derelict water tower rising up, and the small bumps of gravestones marking the spot.
We continue in silence, as I walk behind Victor's rolling wheel as he trundles along. My light shirt isn't going to be suited for travelling, I quickly discover. While my pants are rugged, having been designed for rock climbing, my blue v-neck shirt doesn't look like it could take a simple cactus tear, much less armed combat. Jason Brody only got away with it due to suspension of disbelief – cotton isn't made for resisting gunfire.
Just as the sun peaks over the edge of the distant mountains, we stop, watching the sunrise from the edge of the bluff.
I stare, silently, as the sun silhouettes the glowing New Vegas strip, bathing it in light. Flickering neon glints, twinkling merrily as the night slowly fades. I'd estimate thirty miles between the cemetery and New Vegas, but the straight-line route is right out – I'm not going to mess with any Deathclaws if I can help it.
The tall spire of the Lucky 38 soars over everything else. Somehow, though, I'm not impressed – though I'd never seen the Las Vegas version, I'd seen the Space Needle enough. Granted, the Lucky 38 was taller, but it wasn't mine in the same way that the 'Needle was.
"Boss man wants a word," Victor said, turning to face me.
I open my mouth to ask how, but before I can, Victor's screen blanks out, and after a moment of flickering motion, the mustachioed image of Robert House replaces him.
"Well, now, aren't you a mystery?" Mr. House muses. "I hope you're aware of just how impossible you are – trans-dimensional transportation was, supposedly, impossible. But yet… here's the proof."
Unable to help it, I gape at him for a moment, before shaking my head.
"Trans-dimensional teleportation?" I repeat, starting sweat as I prepare to bullshit my way out of this mess. "But that…that's impossible. Even if you could figure out how to pierce the dimensional wall – so to speak – you'd have to figure out how not to incinerate the guy you're sending through!"
"Ah, you fancy yourself a thinker, eh? In that case, allow me to introduce myself: I am Robert Edwin House, president, CEO, and sole proprietor of the New Vegas Strip. I shall be blunt – you are an enigma to me. I have the capacity to predict and understand more than you will know, but yet your appearance was impossible – if not for the scene before my eyes," Mr. House says.
"But they're not quite your eyes, are they, boss?" I jab instinctively, before gritting my teeth in irritation – getting snippy is not going to improve my situation, dammit, and I don't want Mr. House to realize just how much I know. "Using a robot doesn't count – don't think I haven't noticed how you aren't able to actually move the robot. No control, eh?"
"An irrelevant technicality," Mr. House dismisses. "If I needed the body to move, I would use Victor – which you must realize. Do not think that you can simply bluff your way out of this situation. You know exactly what I want."
I swallow, my mouth dry from the hike.
"You want the chip," I state cautiously. "The one that fancy-pants took."
"His name is Benny," House informs me. "But yes, that is correct. Unfortunately, the games of New Vegas are played in the shadows – Benny does not know that I know he has the chip."
"So why are you talking to me?" I ask carefully. "I'm not exactly the pinnacle of human lethality, here. You want me to hunt the fancy bastard, I get that, but… why?"
"Do you not want to? Would you prefer that I hire a mercenary? Surely you understand that you have but a few options at this stage of the game – and my offer is the best one you will receive."
"And what if I choose to stay in Goodsprings?" I challenge. "Or if I leave the Mojave? Maybe I can't go home, but I bet Oregon's nicer than a goddamn desert."
"So you are from the United States," House muses. "Tell me, how different is this world from yours? Obviously, the language has remained the same, but as for the rest…"
"Well, my world wasn't stupid enough to start World War III," I mutter. "Other than that… I know we didn't have any robots running around, at least, not this commonly. Still, Doc Mitchell managed to explain the basics to me. Twenty-third century, war with the Chinese, so on and so forth."
"Indeed – I trust that you are capable of comprehending the fragile power balance that has ensued. All you need to know is that I require the Platinum Chip."
"Again, I feel like I should remind you that I am not a badass – why the fuck are you asking me? Wait…"
I chuckle, slowly getting louder as my amusement blooms into full laughter.
"You – you have," I say between bursts of laughter, "literally no other option. Your only option is me."
Mr. House's computer face shifts into a frown.
"Yes, that does appear to be the case. Nonetheless, you will do this. While I may not be able to take the Platinum Chip from Benny, I can still easily have you killed."
My laughter abruptly chokes off as Mr. House lifts one of Victor's gun arms experimentally.
"Furthermore, I doubt I will need fine motor control to reduce you into a fine paste," House continued. "If you want to remain alive, I suggest that you cooperate. If not… there is always the Courier."
"Alright, alright!" I interrupt, desperate to change the conversation before House actually decides to kill me. "I get it, I get it! But I'm not doin' this for free."
"Name your price," Mr. House instructed.
"Hmm… Let's… let's start with twenty-thousand caps," I say. "You've got billions of caps, but gouging you is pointless – still, I want to make a profit here, so twenty-grand is good."
"Well-reasoned," Mr. House praises reluctantly.
"Hold on, that's not all," I say, holding up a hand. "Now, since I've got no guarantee that this Courier is gonna be useful, we're gonna need supplies."
"What did you have in mind?"
"To start, food and water to survive the trek. I'm not a fan of deserts – prefer rainforests, to be honest – and I'm not about to head off into the Mojave without a good amount of food and water. Which means another grand up front, separate from the twenty," I list off, ticking off fingers. "Second, guns and armor: preferably some kind of light, modular armor, suited to fast travelling. Revolvers and bolt-action rifles would be good, 'cause the sand is gonna cause plenty of jams and maintenance problems."
"Anything else on your shopping list?" Mr. House inquired, his tone scathing.
"Yeah, actually..." I tell him. "Consider this my primary concern – finding me a fucking way home."
"Unfortunately for you, dimensional transportation is somewhat beyond my purview," Mr. House remarked dryly. "Perhaps I can get you a pair of ruby slippers instead."
"What's that make you, the wicked witch?" I reply unthinkingly. "C'mon, boss – it's the late twenty-third century, where're all the mad scientists? There's gotta be some kind of Pre-War science facility left over – if you guys have functional robots, then-"
"You do realize that the existence of robots has no impact on the possibility of dimensional transportation? There is a vast gulf between those two technologies. Besides, with the world in such a disorganized state, you cannot simply assume that this miraculous technology is simply waiting for you out there – you cannot be that naïve."
"Then my third condition is that you look for something like it," I challenge. "This isn't just something that can benefit me – imagine a way to escape New Vegas, if you have to – or better yet, a way to bring in extra-dimensional technology for your robots. What better ace in the hole, right boss?"
"You have a point," House conceded. "Very well, then. Consider that our bargain: you bring me the chip, and I give you supplies, twenty thousand bottle caps, and possibly a way home."
"One thousand up front, twenty thousand at the end - but yeah, that sounds about right," I accept.
This is my best hope for getting home, I think to myself.
I should be relieved by this arrangement. Instead, all I feel is a hollow pit in my stomach.
Chapter 1
Snip 1
Snip 2
Chapter 1 (Snip 1)
The floorboards creak as I shift in the bed. For a brief moment, I twitch, and the creaking pauses.
A footstep thunks dully against the wooden boards, and then another. Boots, with a heel, I think – because the footsteps are louder than a normal shoe.
"Well, how 'bout that? Easy, now, don't try to sit up," the intruder says, in familiar male voice, as I open my eyes.
My eyes blur, and for a few seconds they itch as my contacts readjust.
"Where am I?" I croak hoarsely, my throat parched and dry.
"Here, have some water," the man says, pressing a plastic water bottle into my hand.
I swig some immediately, then gag as the water rushes into my mouth. I swallow, then drink a little more, swishing it around in my mouth as I blink rapidly, settling my contacts in properly.
Turning my head, I glance over to see a military-surplus cot next to mine. Someone is lying there; their head swaddled in layers of dirty white bandages and clothed raggedy underwear.
Beneath the other person is an old, 1950's style poster, faded with age and tacked up on a battered wooden wall. 'The Guy Who Came Back' is the prominently displayed title.
Next to the poster is the man, sitting on a small stool and clad in worn rustic clothing, a washed-out red kerchief around his neck. His bald head gleams with the light trickling in from the boarded up windows, and a well-trimmed white mustache adorns his lip.
My eyes widen in horrified recognition as the man continues to speak.
"I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings."
Xxxx
An hour later, I'm sitting at Doc Mitchell's kitchen table, watching Michael Hogan cook me a gecko steak.
"You're lucky those men didn't find you," Doc Mitchell says nonchalantly, as I sip at my bottle of water. "I'm still patchin' up that poor girl in the other room. Dunno how she survived a bullet to the head, but she should be up in a few hours."
"Those men?" I repeat quietly, glancing up at the doctor.
"Yeah. When Victor brought the girl over, he had you slung over the arm," Doc Mitchell shrugs. "At first, I thought you'd been shot too, but I guess not. Still, you had a nasty bump on your head. I guess you got knocked unconscious by one of those men, but that still leaves the question of why they didn't just shoot you too."
The doctor sets the gecko steak down in front of me, then sits down, giving me a hard look.
"They'd already buried one body, so why not bury another? Victor's story's left me with a might bit of confusion regarding you – but as far as I can tell, it ain't no business of mine."
"Trust me," I reply sourly, "you're not the only one confused right now."
Doc Mitchell chuckled.
"I expect not. Still, I patched you up as best I could – it's what I'm here for – but don't worry about payment. All I did was give you a bed, and I'm not running a hotel, here, so we're square," Doc Mitchell informed me, nodding frankly.
"Thanks," I say, a little touched. "Not often you find people who are so kind."
He chuckled again, then coughed.
"Well, actually, it's 'cause I noticed you didn't have any caps on you. No point in asking for payment if 'n you're not likely to get any," he admitted.
Unable to help myself, I laugh.
Xxxx
Dust and sand whirl by as the pre-dawn breeze picks up, whistling through the dark, still-slumbering town of Goodsprings. Carried along by the wind, the sand bites at my neck, scratching away at my exposed skin.
Frowning, I try to ignore the sensation, but it's hard.
The Mojave Wasteland is, sadly, a desert. Having grown up in a coastal rainforest, I was more used to rainstorms than sand – although I had travelled to some deserts before. Already, I could feel the corners of my mouth drying up; water deprivation was probably going to be a major problem, I could see.
That is, if I decided to stay in the Mojave.
After all, I was a Washington boy – the State, not the District. Why stay in the desert when I could just return to Seattle, or better yet, the Coast?
Up there, I would know what was edible, where to scavenge, and how to survive. Sure, the rain and storms would make for hard winters, but the growing season would provide me with a ridiculous amount of food; unlike eking out a miserable amount of food from the desert, it would be easy to cultivate abundant crop yield in western Washington.
Hell, I might even be able to find a post-apocalyptic version of my house. After all, most of my town was built prior to the Fifties – a lot of old houses and buildings, along with a large amount of logging mills.
Most importantly, up there, I could retreat to the labyrinth of logging roads that crisscrossed the Coast – roads that led deep into the mountains, where I could live out my life safely, and with plenty of comfort.
Absently, I pulled out a tan bandana from my backpack, wrapping it carefully around my neck, tying a basic knot around the front to secure it. The fabric was only cheap cotton, and it wouldn't last long. It was no army-issue shemagh, but it would do for now.
Carefully, I zipped up my backpack, making sure to note what supplies were inside. Some of the stuff was useless, or soon to be, but that didn't matter. My passport, for instance, was not useful. My wallet, full of U.S. dollars, might just be – that is, if pre-War money still resembles non-Fallout money. Other than that, the legal notepad could be useful, even if only for starting fires. My laptop was dead weight without a compatible power source. Deodorant… was a nice touch, but probably would be used up soon enough.
Sunglasses, still in their case, would also be required in the sun-bleached desert. My pocketknife was of high quality, and would serve me well, so I clipped it on to the side of my worn khaki climbing pants. The thick roll of heavy-duty duct tape would probably be invaluable. My black hardshell jacket was of the completely wrong coloration for the desert, but it was perfect for sudden rainfall and was thin enough that it didn't take up much space in my pack anyway.
I frown as I regarded the abysmal state of my supplies. Had I really thought that small amount of emergency gear would suffice back home? Granted, I hadn't been planning on making a trip or anything like that, but I always tried to have emergency supplies handy, just in case. When I got back, I swore, I was going to make sure to carry ample supplies.
My heart sank as I play those last thoughts back. When I got back… As far as I remember, there was no way that the Mojave would have the kind of tech to send somebody across dimensions.
So why was I here, then? Had I been plucked away as a joke? Taken away merely for the amusement of some kind of random, omnipotent being?
My fists clench, and I struggle not to slam a punch into the wooden railing of Doc Mitchell's front porch.
God, I hope not.
"Well howdy there, partner!" calls a warm, yet strange voice.
I look up, and come face-to-screen with a robot.
"Woah!" I yelp, stumbling back a step and tripping over Doc Mitchell's rocking chair – my feet go out beneath me, and my back smashes into the ground with a thud.
"Sorry, didn't mean to scare ya," the robot apologizes, as I groan. "I saw you were up and about, so I thought I might swing on by and see how you were doin'."
"I'm… alright, thanks," I reply slowly, wincing as I slowly get back to my feet. "You must be… Victor, right? Doc Mitchell said you brought me here."
"That I did, though I can't rightly say how you came to be here – all's I did was bring you to the good doc," Victor replies, rolling backwards slightly and 'shrugging' his pauldrons.
"How I came to be here?" I repeat, arms tensing as adrenaline starts to flood my system. "I'd like to think I came here the same way we all did… conception, birth, childhood… you know, the human stuff."
Victor chuckles, and his long cylindrical arms swing back and forth, while I cautiously watch out for the gatling laser mounted in the right one – at least, I think it's the right one. I could be the left.
"Well, I'm sure ya did, partner, but I remember seein' a big glowin' light on that there cemetery hill, an' then you just popped on out!" Victor tells me casually, as my eyes widen. "C'mon, I'll show ya where it happened!"
"No… uh, no thanks, Victor," I mumble, stepping backwards. "I think I… I should go inside, now."
Victor's right arm shoots out, stopping, snake-like, just before it latched onto my leg.
Terrified, I glance down, then back up, as Victor's jovial cowboy face shifts, turning into a disapproving glare.
"I'm 'fraid I can't let you do that, partner," Victor says slowly, pointing his left arm at me, the panels pulling back to reveal the ominous barrel of his gatling laser. "I just got word from the boss – 'pparently he wants to talk to you. Seein' as cemetery hill has the best reception from New Vegas, I think we'd best get going."
I nod shakily, grabbing my backpack and hesitantly following the rolling Securitron out, into the biting wind.
Xxxx
Our short trek to the cemetery was scenic, I'll admit, but when Victor's laser seared a gecko into a pile of ashes, all thoughts of enjoying the scenery flew from my head.
The temperature isn't so bad, but it's slowly starting to rise as the sun's first rays start to peak over the horizon. Up ahead, I can see the derelict water tower rising up, and the small bumps of gravestones marking the spot.
We continue in silence, as I walk behind Victor's rolling wheel as he trundles along. My light shirt isn't going to be suited for travelling, I quickly discover. While my pants are rugged, having been designed for rock climbing, my blue v-neck shirt doesn't look like it could take a simple cactus tear, much less armed combat. Jason Brody only got away with it due to suspension of disbelief – cotton isn't made for resisting gunfire.
Just as the sun peaks over the edge of the distant mountains, we stop, watching the sunrise from the edge of the bluff.
I stare, silently, as the sun silhouettes the glowing New Vegas strip, bathing it in light. Flickering neon glints, twinkling merrily as the night slowly fades. I'd estimate thirty miles between the cemetery and New Vegas, but the straight-line route is right out – I'm not going to mess with any Deathclaws if I can help it.
The tall spire of the Lucky 38 soars over everything else. Somehow, though, I'm not impressed – though I'd never seen the Las Vegas version, I'd seen the Space Needle enough. Granted, the Lucky 38 was taller, but it wasn't mine in the same way that the 'Needle was.
"Boss man wants a word," Victor said, turning to face me.
I open my mouth to ask how, but before I can, Victor's screen blanks out, and after a moment of flickering motion, the mustachioed image of Robert House replaces him.
"Well, now, aren't you a mystery?" Mr. House muses. "I hope you're aware of just how impossible you are – trans-dimensional transportation was, supposedly, impossible. But yet… here's the proof."
Unable to help it, I gape at him for a moment, before shaking my head.
"Trans-dimensional teleportation?" I repeat, starting sweat as I prepare to bullshit my way out of this mess. "But that…that's impossible. Even if you could figure out how to pierce the dimensional wall – so to speak – you'd have to figure out how not to incinerate the guy you're sending through!"
"Ah, you fancy yourself a thinker, eh? In that case, allow me to introduce myself: I am Robert Edwin House, president, CEO, and sole proprietor of the New Vegas Strip. I shall be blunt – you are an enigma to me. I have the capacity to predict and understand more than you will know, but yet your appearance was impossible – if not for the scene before my eyes," Mr. House says.
"But they're not quite your eyes, are they, boss?" I jab instinctively, before gritting my teeth in irritation – getting snippy is not going to improve my situation, dammit, and I don't want Mr. House to realize just how much I know. "Using a robot doesn't count – don't think I haven't noticed how you aren't able to actually move the robot. No control, eh?"
"An irrelevant technicality," Mr. House dismisses. "If I needed the body to move, I would use Victor – which you must realize. Do not think that you can simply bluff your way out of this situation. You know exactly what I want."
I swallow, my mouth dry from the hike.
"You want the chip," I state cautiously. "The one that fancy-pants took."
"His name is Benny," House informs me. "But yes, that is correct. Unfortunately, the games of New Vegas are played in the shadows – Benny does not know that I know he has the chip."
"So why are you talking to me?" I ask carefully. "I'm not exactly the pinnacle of human lethality, here. You want me to hunt the fancy bastard, I get that, but… why?"
"Do you not want to? Would you prefer that I hire a mercenary? Surely you understand that you have but a few options at this stage of the game – and my offer is the best one you will receive."
"And what if I choose to stay in Goodsprings?" I challenge. "Or if I leave the Mojave? Maybe I can't go home, but I bet Oregon's nicer than a goddamn desert."
"So you are from the United States," House muses. "Tell me, how different is this world from yours? Obviously, the language has remained the same, but as for the rest…"
"Well, my world wasn't stupid enough to start World War III," I mutter. "Other than that… I know we didn't have any robots running around, at least, not this commonly. Still, Doc Mitchell managed to explain the basics to me. Twenty-third century, war with the Chinese, so on and so forth."
"Indeed – I trust that you are capable of comprehending the fragile power balance that has ensued. All you need to know is that I require the Platinum Chip."
"Again, I feel like I should remind you that I am not a badass – why the fuck are you asking me? Wait…"
I chuckle, slowly getting louder as my amusement blooms into full laughter.
"You – you have," I say between bursts of laughter, "literally no other option. Your only option is me."
Mr. House's computer face shifts into a frown.
"Yes, that does appear to be the case. Nonetheless, you will do this. While I may not be able to take the Platinum Chip from Benny, I can still easily have you killed."
My laughter abruptly chokes off as Mr. House lifts one of Victor's gun arms experimentally.
"Furthermore, I doubt I will need fine motor control to reduce you into a fine paste," House continued. "If you want to remain alive, I suggest that you cooperate. If not… there is always the Courier."
"Alright, alright!" I interrupt, desperate to change the conversation before House actually decides to kill me. "I get it, I get it! But I'm not doin' this for free."
"Name your price," Mr. House instructed.
"Hmm… Let's… let's start with twenty-thousand caps," I say. "You've got billions of caps, but gouging you is pointless – still, I want to make a profit here, so twenty-grand is good."
"Well-reasoned," Mr. House praises reluctantly.
"Hold on, that's not all," I say, holding up a hand. "Now, since I've got no guarantee that this Courier is gonna be useful, we're gonna need supplies."
"What did you have in mind?"
"To start, food and water to survive the trek. I'm not a fan of deserts – prefer rainforests, to be honest – and I'm not about to head off into the Mojave without a good amount of food and water. Which means another grand up front, separate from the twenty," I list off, ticking off fingers. "Second, guns and armor: preferably some kind of light, modular armor, suited to fast travelling. Revolvers and bolt-action rifles would be good, 'cause the sand is gonna cause plenty of jams and maintenance problems."
"Anything else on your shopping list?" Mr. House inquired, his tone scathing.
"Yeah, actually..." I tell him. "Consider this my primary concern – finding me a fucking way home."
"Unfortunately for you, dimensional transportation is somewhat beyond my purview," Mr. House remarked dryly. "Perhaps I can get you a pair of ruby slippers instead."
"What's that make you, the wicked witch?" I reply unthinkingly. "C'mon, boss – it's the late twenty-third century, where're all the mad scientists? There's gotta be some kind of Pre-War science facility left over – if you guys have functional robots, then-"
"You do realize that the existence of robots has no impact on the possibility of dimensional transportation? There is a vast gulf between those two technologies. Besides, with the world in such a disorganized state, you cannot simply assume that this miraculous technology is simply waiting for you out there – you cannot be that naïve."
"Then my third condition is that you look for something like it," I challenge. "This isn't just something that can benefit me – imagine a way to escape New Vegas, if you have to – or better yet, a way to bring in extra-dimensional technology for your robots. What better ace in the hole, right boss?"
"You have a point," House conceded. "Very well, then. Consider that our bargain: you bring me the chip, and I give you supplies, twenty thousand bottle caps, and possibly a way home."
"One thousand up front, twenty thousand at the end - but yeah, that sounds about right," I accept.
This is my best hope for getting home, I think to myself.
I should be relieved by this arrangement. Instead, all I feel is a hollow pit in my stomach.
- Location
- Little Rock, AR
Well that depends. Did he get a min maxed no cha murder hobo who can suplex a deathclaw?
A super fly spy guy gal in the making who'll have him eating out the palm of his hand and questioning his sexuality/chastity in a month?
A generalist surviver?
A general educated?
Ranger in training?
Energy weapon spec?
A super fly spy guy gal in the making who'll have him eating out the palm of his hand and questioning his sexuality/chastity in a month?
A generalist surviver?
A general educated?
Ranger in training?
Energy weapon spec?
Malbutorius
C'est le bien qui fait mal
You should have checked the Vigor Tester.
PhoenixFTW
Insert Witty One-Liner Here
- Location
- Minnesota
Interesting and pretty well written. Watched.
Xeno Major
Sensei Rower
Roughly speaking, these are my stats:
Strength - 6
Perception* - 3
Endurance - 6
Charisma - 7
Intelligence* - 7
Agility - 7
Luck* - ?
Each asterisk marks an additional note.
Perception - I use -3.5 Contacts, which puts my vision somewhere between 20/150 and 20/300. However, I am very observant, and frequently notice things others miss. As such, when using my Contacts, I have a perception of 6. When using Eyeglasses, I have a perception of 5. With nothing, I have the shown perception score of 3.
Intelligence - I dislike using one stat for Intelligence. This relates to Specialization vs. Generalization, and as such, Intelligence will be handled as Common Sense dictates, rather than as everyone's Intelligence scores dictate. Personally, I prefer using the KOTOR-style system, which has both Intelligence and Wisdom - in that system, I have only moderate Intelligence (5-6), but higher Wisdom.
Luck - Ha. Hahahahahahahahaha.
Barter -25
Energy Weapons -15
Explosives -25
Guns (T) -45
Lockpick -00
Medicine -40
Melee -20
Repair* -15
Science* -35
Sneak -30
Speech (T) -40
Survival* -05
Unarmed (T) -55
Repair and Science - these fall under the same problem as the Intelligence score - Common sense will trump the Score, if applicable.
Survival - I'm an experienced hiker/rockclimber - but I live in the rainforest, not the desert. My experience with Desert survival is nil - so the Survival score reflects my lack of knowledge in desert survival
As some of you have noticed, these scores are unbalanced - because IRL, life is unbalanced. I have spent most of my life 'training' my body or my mind, whereas Wastelanders spend most of their lives trying to survive.
I have tried to show my own abilities as fairly as possible, but complete accuracy is impossible.
Strength - 6
Perception* - 3
Endurance - 6
Charisma - 7
Intelligence* - 7
Agility - 7
Luck* - ?
Each asterisk marks an additional note.
Perception - I use -3.5 Contacts, which puts my vision somewhere between 20/150 and 20/300. However, I am very observant, and frequently notice things others miss. As such, when using my Contacts, I have a perception of 6. When using Eyeglasses, I have a perception of 5. With nothing, I have the shown perception score of 3.
Intelligence - I dislike using one stat for Intelligence. This relates to Specialization vs. Generalization, and as such, Intelligence will be handled as Common Sense dictates, rather than as everyone's Intelligence scores dictate. Personally, I prefer using the KOTOR-style system, which has both Intelligence and Wisdom - in that system, I have only moderate Intelligence (5-6), but higher Wisdom.
Luck - Ha. Hahahahahahahahaha.
Barter -25
Energy Weapons -15
Explosives -25
Guns (T) -45
Lockpick -00
Medicine -40
Melee -20
Repair* -15
Science* -35
Sneak -30
Speech (T) -40
Survival* -05
Unarmed (T) -55
Repair and Science - these fall under the same problem as the Intelligence score - Common sense will trump the Score, if applicable.
Survival - I'm an experienced hiker/rockclimber - but I live in the rainforest, not the desert. My experience with Desert survival is nil - so the Survival score reflects my lack of knowledge in desert survival
As some of you have noticed, these scores are unbalanced - because IRL, life is unbalanced. I have spent most of my life 'training' my body or my mind, whereas Wastelanders spend most of their lives trying to survive.
I have tried to show my own abilities as fairly as possible, but complete accuracy is impossible.
NO XENO!! Now who'll write Terran ingenuity. Curse you rob curse you.
I would be interested in stories like thatina_meishou said:
Vulpine Fury
in socks
Hmmm. "I was lucky, apparently the Courier is a Charisma BEAST... or at least her "player" was a skilled hand at picking face sliders, or had a mod installed, because... WOW. Add the Vault Suit being tight leather... did I already say WOW? Here's hoping we can get along."
- Location
- Oblivion
Actually his true strength is going to be that he has a Rad level lower then even a vault dweller.captain melgar said:
Which means the low level FEV strain that was released into the atmosphere when the bombs fell is going to be super effective in buffing him.
Xeno Major
Sensei Rower
I prefer semi-automatic rifles, really. Bolt-action or semi-auto, I'm used to shooting at roughly 100-200 yards with or without a scope - though I'll probably fiddling with the sights constantly.InsertCreativeNameHere said:
I'm not too bad bad with pistols, sure, but that's more of a self-defense thing, so I wouldn't trust my aim past a certain point. I'm used to the recoil, though, so anything up to a .45 ACP would me manageable - but probably not a .44 Mag, those things are a BITCH.
Recoil is a curious thing - the skill requirement in New Vegas did a good job of showing what happened when you weren't used to it, but recoil is different in pistols than it is in rifles. Basically, I can fire pretty much any rifle save the AMR without much difficulty.
I'll be honest, I love shooting rifles. The first time you fire off, say, a .458x2 American, feel that hammer on your shoulder, and you nail the target - that's a gooooood feeling.
Dirtnap
Kanmusu Affecionado
That is a big goddam bullet.Xeno Major said:
Xeno Major
Sensei Rower
Yup. First time I saw one, it was when a group of my highschool buddies and I went to an outdoor range. One of the rangemasters had it with him, so one of my friends tried it out.Dirtnap said:
He fired it once, got scoped, and backed the fuck away - since there was one more shot in the mag, I fired, also got scoped, and promptly fell in love. My friend refused to touch the rifle again, but I fired it six or seven more times.
Also, here's some bullet comparison charts, so that y'all can see.
I wrote one where I died in the OP. So they are out there.Gore17 said:
Zetrein
Well here we are again...
Logically speaking, he (and the universe) won't be limited by the level limits (or DLC limits, within reason) on when guns show up, not to mention that the round fired will have more to do with the damage then the gun. A battle rifle, sniper rifle, and hunting rifle, all chamber the same round, if you recall. Logically speaking, the main advantage a sniper rifle would have over a scoped hunting rifle is the semi-auto feed vs bolt.
What I'm getting at, is that things like the Colt handguns (and any other WW2 era american guns) will likely be around, 9mm will be dangerous, and the higher velocity round might be better at armor penetration then a .45. Same story with the 5.56, and other rounds. Common weapons are common, bullets are bullets.
Granted, this entire post assumes a certain level of realism, which may well be halfway out the window already.
What I'm getting at, is that things like the Colt handguns (and any other WW2 era american guns) will likely be around, 9mm will be dangerous, and the higher velocity round might be better at armor penetration then a .45. Same story with the 5.56, and other rounds. Common weapons are common, bullets are bullets.
Granted, this entire post assumes a certain level of realism, which may well be halfway out the window already.
Dirtnap
Kanmusu Affecionado
OP has already said he's probably gonna stick to fair amount of Realism.Zetrein said:
Pyrion
Asuran Rights Activist
- Location
- Spirit Lake, ID
In a game where it's scattered all over the place.Mercsenary said:
I tend to rely on the varmint rifle, hunting rifle, sniper rifle, AMR, and hand grenades/dynamite, along with copious abuse of AI pathing glitches (hint: the AI can't jump, even if only up two feet, so if it can't path to you and can't shoot you, it'll run away and hide behind something).
Dirtnap
Kanmusu Affecionado
Bulk Plasma....alllll the Bulk Plasma Cells. Get in good with the NCR and they have them in metric fucktons at the Hoover Dam.Pyrion said:
Pyrion
Asuran Rights Activist
- Location
- Spirit Lake, ID
Thing is, I have a mod installed that removes the invisible walls, so it's very much possible to get on top of some really high places on the map where the devs never really intended players to go, so there are no navmeshes up there. Even if the AI could walk up there, they won't, and if they can't shoot, they put as much distance between you and them while hiding behind anything that'll suffice. Not that this stops me from killing them, because by hiding, they break line of sight, so I just sit in sneak mode and wait them out. They eventually lose sight, walk back, and I plink away some more.Mercsenary said:
The same behavior exists in Skyrim, btw. If an NPC hasn't been specifically scripted to jump at certain places, they won't.
Xeno Major
Sensei Rower
Chapter 1 (Snip 2)
The rifle cracks, the recoil nonexistent as a .22 round smashes into the unsuspecting gecko, spraying brains across the rocks.
Sunny whistles lowly behind me. I glance back, smirking slightly as she nods respectfully. Unconsciously, I rack the bolt, ejecting the tiny .22 case and loading another into the small varmint rifle.
"Nice shot," she praises, standing up from her crouch and drawing her pistol. "C'mon, I'll show you how to skin it."
"Alright," I reply, lowering the rifle and rising from my sitting position behind the rock. "Thanks again for lettin' me tag along. I wasn't exactly eager to hang around Doc Mitchell's house all day."
"Afraid of doctors?" Sunny asks, clambering over a rock and lightly dropping down onto the barren ground.
"Not likely," I grunt, my shoes sending up dust as I drop down from rock. "My mother was one – well, technically, she was – uh, anyway, I'm not scared of doctors."
"Then why bother comin' out here with me?" Sunny asks, tilting her head. "I'm happy you did, but why help out a stranger?"
I shrug, reaching up and rubbing a bit of gritty sand out of the corner of my eyes. Sunny moves over to the gecko, lifting it up by the tail with both hands and slapping in down on a waist-high rock.
"I like helping people," I answer honestly, as Sunny draws an old, wooden-handled skinning knife. "Just… can't stand being useless, you know?"
Sunny nodded, a pensive look on her face.
"Here, take a look at this," she gestured, tapping the gecko with the end of her knife. "The hardest part about skinnin' a gecko is how you start. Watch carefully now, I'll show ya how it's done."
Xxxx
The front door creaks as I re-enter Doc Mitchell's house. The noise of someone talking is faint, but noticeable, so I quietly set down my pack down on the cabinet next to the door, glancing briefly into the mirror and distractedly brushing my bangs over one ear.
"…not like I expect you to have a family history of gettin' shot in the head," Doc Mitchell's voice says, coming from down the hall.
I pause, carefully closely the door. Briefly, my right hand brushes the holster Sunny gave me, my fingers trailing along the grip of my borrowed Browning Hi-Power 9mm.
"I… I don't know," says a woman's voice, hesitant and wary, and so very familiar. "I can't remember much."
"I thought that might happen," Doc Mitchel sighs, as the leather of his chair squeaks. "With head wounds, the effects are often a mite unpredictable. Unfortunately, there's no real way of telling if you'll get better or not."
Softly, I walk towards the living room, moving slowly and methodically, my steps silent as I keep my feet close to the wall.
Walking quietly isn't really that hard, when you get down to it. Anyone who knows basic science has already learned some of the essential bits; at the basic level, noise is wasted energy. You have to shift your weight just enough to support your body, without putting too much weight on the ground.
Honestly, I don't even notice when I do it any more. When learning the higher katas in karate, proper balance and weight support is a requirement.
Quietly, I lean against the doorway, watching as Doc Mitchell comforts the woman sitting before him. She was clad in a worn set of loose underwear, but her hunched shoulders and distressed voice drive any sexual thoughts from my head.
Carefully, I inspect her, noting the faded scar tissue running along the back of her left arm; must've been a burn. A faint line slanted down her right arm, reminiscent of a wound from a blade.
But the most distinctive scars were the harsh, jagged diagonal lines slashing up her back, marring otherwise smooth skin. The scar tissue was lumpy and twisted. Unable to help it, I stare, my jaw loose as I gaze at what has to be marks from a whip. Ugly and uneven, they stand out, and I can't help but gawk at their horrific appearance.
I grunt, an unconscious noise of pity slipping from my mouth, and she snaps around, her movements smooth and instinctive. Her hand twitches for a pistol, grasping nothing but the fabric of her underwear. Her short blond hair flutters around her head, cut unevenly and revealing the line of stitches around her forehead.
"I'll give you two some space," Doc Mitchell mutters, nodding to me as he steps past me.
His boots click on the dusty wooden floor, ringing in the sudden silence as the Courier stares at me, her lips drawn into a tight line as she narrows her eyes. The front door shuts with a soft thud, and I repress the urge to fidget.
"I'm Nick," I say, my words loud in the suddenly quiet room, as I raise my hands, showing open palms. "I don't mean you any harm... on my honor – you've got nothin' to fear from me."
"Honor…" the Courier sighs, shaking her head sluggishly. "That doesn't exist any more."
"Doesn't change the fact that I don't want to hurt you," I reply, stepping forward and smiling gently, like I was comforting another student at the dojo. "What's your name?"
'I… I don't know," the Courier whispers, her head sagging. "I don't know…"
My chest twinges, and I step closer, resting a hand on her shoulder.
She twists instinctively, pulling her shoulder back - I pull my hand back quickly, as her harsh gaze bores a hole in my hand.
"I can't offer you much," I tell her, crouching down and coming level with her eyes. "But I'm going after the bastard that shot you. He's got something I want, and I figure I owe him two bullets."
The Courier looks up, and I meet her gaze firmly, my neck tingling slightly at the her unnatural stare.
"You're a Courier, right?" I ask, despite knowing full well she is. "My route swings by Primm – you can probably get some answers from Johnson Nash there. Who knows, maybe he has some information that can help."
"…Why?" the Courier asks, her voice quiet. "Why would you help me? I don't have anything to pay you with."
"Because one less bastard in the world is worth it – because I can't stand someone like that running loose out here," I say, a sad smile twitching on my face. "And maybe it's just because the same fancy-pants bastard that shot you also stole something important, and I've been contracted to get it back. If you want, I can help you get supplies, armor, weapons, a shot at revenge… and ten thousand caps."
"Who hired you?" the Courier inquires, her eyes hardening as her shoulders tense.
"The big boss himself," I drawl, my expression souring at the thought. "Mr. House."
"The package was for the Strip," the Courier recalls. "It was for him, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," I shrug, standing back up and walking around the couch. "I guess he wants it back pretty badly."
"Ten thousand caps…" the Courier muses, tilting her head. "Alright… I'm in."
"Good," I respond, smirking. "Getting to 'Vegas'll be hard enough as it is; havin' someone to watch my back'll work wonders in the long run."
The Courier nods, smiling hesitantly in reply.
"First, though, I think there might be some work in town for us," I say, extending my right hand to the seated Courier. "What'd'ya say we head down to the bar, get some grub, and see what's happening around town?"
"Alright," the Courier agrees, taking my hand and pulling herself up. "Doc Mitchell said he had some extra supplies that I could have. I'll armor up and meet you at the saloon."
Firmly, I shake her hand and walk away, pretending not to notice as the Courier immediately glances at a nearby mirror, a shaky hand stretching up to her forehead, where the stitches hold her skull together.
Xxxx
"…don't hand him over soon, I'm going to get my friends and we're burning this town to the ground, got it?" the man in blue demanded angrily, shaking his fist at the woman behind the bar.
"What, you can't quite manage to do it on your own?" I inquire, my instinctive jibe coming out before I can stop it.
The man turns to face me, his plain, scar-specked face glaring angrily at me as I walk up to him, shrugging. Clad in a worn prison uniform of dark pants and an unbuttoned blue jacket, the man exudes an air of bravado, but he holds his shoulders like a weightlifter, despite being no bigger than me.
"You understand who you're messing with, kid?" the man growls, his right hand stretching down his side, towards the holstered revolver.
"A criminal," I say, smiling to compensate for my nervously twitching legs. "What'ya do, Joe Cobb? 'Robbed some people, burned some things, killed a few guys?' Real tough customer we got here, folks."
Unable to help it, a few of the locals chuckle, and Joe Cobb's angry look turns murderous.
"Look around, tough guy," I tell him, gesturing at the other dozen people in the bar, talking quickly as my legs start to visibly shake. "Sure, you can probably kill me, but do you think these fine folks around me are just going to sit here and watch as you spill blood in their town?"
Joe Cobb's hand races down to his revolver, but just as he touches it, my foot drills into his stomach, smashing into the loose fabric without any resistance. The lunging front kick is fast, and Joe Cobb bends, his eyes wide.
He stumbles back, but I'm already on him, a fist crashing into his temple. His head snaps to the side, and my other hand cuts into his windpipe, the bastardized palm-heel strike hitting with the outside edge of my hand.
For a moment, I hesitate, as Joe Cobb reels backwards, choking gasps rattling from his mouth. His panicked expression sticks firmly in my mind.
Bizarrely, I wonder why he didn't block the strikes. That notion confuses me for a moment, until I realize I'm not in the dojo – that I'm not sparring, and that for once, this isn't training.
Pain erupts along the back of my head, and I drop to my knees as shards of glass stab into my head, the bottle shattering on my skull.
Without thinking about it, I roll forward the moment my knees touch the floor, just as a second bottle flashes by, missing my head by inches.
The roll is ungainly and ugly, and it carries me right into Joe Cobb's legs. He goes down, falling awkwardly as our legs tangle. The rough wooden floor sends splinters into my exposed arms, and Joe Cobb's back arcs upwards as it hits.
Joe Cobb reacts admirably, and blows swiftly rain down on me, making my eyes water and my jaw ache. Immediately, I smash down with a blind hammer-fist, and the blows stop as a howl of anguish comes from Joe Cobb.
Blinking as my vision blurs, I scramble up, kneeling on the convict's stomach. Any reservations about striking another person are gone, replaced with the roaring rush of adrenaline.
Furious, my fist cracks into Joe Cobb's head, as I pummel the pinned man's face, looking less like a sempai instructor and more like barbaric brawler.
I hit him again and again, swearing under my breath as blows cascade onto the convict's already bruised face.
Three more punches slam into Joe Cobb, and then the sound of a bottle shattering behind me brings me out of my berserker rage.
Quickly, I rise to my feet, my feet shuffling quickly as I hop backwards, away from the bar. A fist flies through the air, right where I had just been.
Blinking quickly, I grasp the situation quickly, cursing under my breath. Two of the 'locals' are attacking the locals, as the Goodsprings settlers defend their bar, and a third disguised Powder Ganger is charging at me, his other hand shooting forward. It looks like Joe Cobb wasn't as stupid as he looked; he'd though ahead enough to have a few of his boys disguised as travellers.
My head's spinning, but that isn't anything new. Guided half by sight and half by instinct, my left hand slips forward, smacking the Powder Ganger's fist to the side. My right hand shoots out, tilting at just the right angle, crunching into the man's throat and cutting off his air.
Lack of air will make most people stop dead – and this convict is no different. He stops, his guard dropping and his eyes flicking downwards.
That half-second of hesitation is all I need. I've been told that my combinations are fairly predictable by my instructors, but that that isn't necessarily a bad thing, as long as the combinations are effective. The limit of a good front kick is the length of your leg – but the limit of a good lunging front kick is much farther.
Once more, my foot buries itself in someone's stomach, driving the man backwards and opening him up for my follow-through.
The Ganger is big, but like most of the people around here, he can't afford to eat enough to support more muscle mass. He's large, sure… but everyone has weak points. After eight years of martial arts, I've come across dozens of metaphors and explanations for the 'phenomenon' of fighting; the most apt one claims that sparring in a dojo is akin to a game of chess, whereas fighting in a brawl is a game of speed chess. The key to winning is being able to strategize on the fly – being able to attack instead of react.
My follow-up strike hits the bridge of his nose; making his eyes water and distracting him. Like twin snakes, my arms weave around his guard, clasping together on the back of his lower neck and pulling him forward, just as my right knee smashes into his groin.
It didn't matter that the Powder Ganger outweighed me by twenty pounds; because the moment he started being reactive instead of proactive, he had already lost.
The man crumples.
I slam another palm-heel into his head, and he falls back, knocking over a table.
A ragged breath slips out from my mouth, and I back up quickly, looking for the next opponent. My eyes scan in front of me, but there's nobody left. Four battered locals in torn cloth and dusty leathers stand over the other two disguised Powder Gangers, two of them clutching broken chair legs.
The locals look at me, tensing for a fight, but I shake my head, waving calmly at them.
"Not looking for a fight," I mutter, breathing deeply as I try to get my stride back.
"Bullshit," one of the locals retorts, looking furious. "You just started a goddamn war, you idiot. The Powder Gangers aren't gonna just forget this. Goddammit, kid, you've just damned the whole damn town."
The others nod in agreement, and I pause, as the soaring high of my adrenaline rush drains away. A warm trickle of liquid slips down the back of my neck, and I glance at the shard of glass strewn across the floor, some laced with my blood. Head wounds bleed a lot, I remember distantly. Already, some of the blood is seeping into my blue V-neck, running down the small of my back. I still can't quite feel the pain, but I know it'll arrive soon enough, as the adrenaline fully wears off.
"We were neutral, son," the bartender, Trudy, says, similarly disapproving. "You've forced us to choose a side."
"You didn't have a choice in the first place," someone says behind me.
Boots clicking on the wooden floorboards as I turn around, the Courier walks past Joe Cobb's motionless form and nudges the Powder Ganger with her toe. The Browning Hi-Power 9mm in her hand is loaded, and her gaze shifts around the room emotionlessly, like she's looking at targets. Leather pants and a light jacket fit over her slim frame, the her newly acquired Pip-Boy rests on her left forearm.
"They may dress well, but they're just another gang of raiders," the Courier says, her words carrying throughout the dusty bar. "Whatever they said about leaving you alone is a lie. They're nothing more than scum. Talking with them was never an option."
"Then what do we do?" another local asks, glancing at his neighbors in fear. "They've got guns, bombs, and a lot more people than us."
"They prey on weakness," the Courier tells him, stepping forward and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, looking at each of the locals in turn. "If they think that taking the town isn't worth losing that many people, they won't attack again."
"But how do we beat the first attack?" Trudy asks, crossing her arms. "We're not soldiers, girl. We've got no armor, and our guns are barely good enough for geckos."
"The human body is surprisingly weak," I note, poking the unconscious raider at my feet. ".22 or not, everyone dies if you hit them in the head. Besides, the road into town is pretty empty – the only real cover is that wrecked house, and if we lace a few demolition charges along it, we can wipe most of 'em out pretty quickly."
"Easy Pete's got some dynamite buried out in the hills," one of the locals offers.
"That'd work," I nod, as the Courier holsters her pistol and bends down, pulling a roll of duct tape from the satchel-pack at her side.
I watch as she quickly wraps the wrists and ankles of the Powder Gangers, and I can't shake the uneasy feeling that something is wrong.
"Help me carry them out," she says, turning to me. "I'll take their feet."
"Uh… I'm going to see Doc Mitchell," I say cautiously, all too aware of the slow drip of blood down my neck.
"Here," Trudy says, offering me a somewhat clean rag. "Press this against it."
Wincing as the rough cloth presses against the wound, I grit my teeth and nod in thanks, before striding out of the bar and heading to Doc Mitchell's house.
Xxxx
By the time Doc Mitchell has plucked the fragments of glass from my head and wrapped a bandaged around it, the sun is starting to set in the west, though the sandy-dirt is still warm from its rays.
"I think your Courier friend is doing something down by the saloon," Doc Mitchell says, frowning as he moves away from the window. "Look's like most of town is already down there. Why don't we go take a look?"
"Okay," I reply, feeling that uneasy sensation returning as Doc Mitchell offers me a thin brown gecko-hide jacket.
I can't help but lightly touch the bandage wrapping around my head – while Doc Mitchell had done a fine job, he'd been forced to wrap the bandages around my forehead and my nose to keep the dressing tight. Every time I turn my head, a slight stab of pain pierces my head, and I can't help but realize just how serious this situation really is.
Doc Mitchell was right when he said most of town had already arrived – Goodsprings only had about forty or fifty people, but everyone is present, down to a few young kids poking their heads out around their parent's backs.
The wind dies down as the Courier steps in front of the crowd, the dust already sticking to her pants. For a brief moment, I look at her hair, where Doc Mitchell had given her a crude haircut so that he could get to the bullet wound; perhaps it had resembled a hair style before, but now it was brutally simple, almost like a soldier's haircut.
The Powder Gangers knelt before her, their wrists bound in duct tape behind their backs, and their mouths wrapped shut. One of them squirms for a moment, wrestling with his bonds, but the Courier merely points her pistol at him, and he stops moving entirely.
"People of Goodsprings," the Courier calls out, lowering her pistol and turning to the crowd. "These men are members of the so-called 'Powder Gangers'. They say that if you turn over Ringo, they will leave you in peace. But that's a lie."
One of the locals turns to his neighbor, and whispers a few words. The other man nods, and together they turn away, gathering up the few children present and quickly shepherding them away from the gathering.
Smart of them, I think grimly, as they pulled the curious children away. I don't think this is going to end well at all.
"The food and water stores in the NCRCF can't last forever," the Courier continues. "When they run out, the Powder Gangers will be searching for whatever supplies they can find, and they won't ask nicely for them. This isn't a matter of diplomacy or negotiation – this is a matter of survival. If you want to out last the Powder Gangers, then you've got to show them that you aren't afraid."
"Ringo isn't one of us!" one of the locals shouts. "Why should we defend him?"
"This isn't about Ringo," the Courier replies firmly. "That's just an excuse for them to close in, so that they can get close to town. They want you to fight amongst yourself, to argue about Ringo, until they're already in your door. This situation isn't impossible, people; if we send them running fast enough, the Powder Gangers will never come back."
"And how do we do that?" Trudy demands, crossing her arms.
"Simple," the Courier tells them, drawing her pistol. "We kill every single one we see."
Turning, the Courier fires four times, the bang of her pistol earsplitting, as she emotionlessly executes the kneeling Powder Gangers with headshots. Each bullet sends blood splattering across the split asphalt of the old highway, and the bodies crumple to the dusty ground like dolls with their strings cut.
My stomach heaves, and I clamp down on it, my face pale as I fight the urge to hurl.
The crowd was silent as the Courier turned to face them.
"It's all about sending a message," the Courier says.
The rifle cracks, the recoil nonexistent as a .22 round smashes into the unsuspecting gecko, spraying brains across the rocks.
Sunny whistles lowly behind me. I glance back, smirking slightly as she nods respectfully. Unconsciously, I rack the bolt, ejecting the tiny .22 case and loading another into the small varmint rifle.
"Nice shot," she praises, standing up from her crouch and drawing her pistol. "C'mon, I'll show you how to skin it."
"Alright," I reply, lowering the rifle and rising from my sitting position behind the rock. "Thanks again for lettin' me tag along. I wasn't exactly eager to hang around Doc Mitchell's house all day."
"Afraid of doctors?" Sunny asks, clambering over a rock and lightly dropping down onto the barren ground.
"Not likely," I grunt, my shoes sending up dust as I drop down from rock. "My mother was one – well, technically, she was – uh, anyway, I'm not scared of doctors."
"Then why bother comin' out here with me?" Sunny asks, tilting her head. "I'm happy you did, but why help out a stranger?"
I shrug, reaching up and rubbing a bit of gritty sand out of the corner of my eyes. Sunny moves over to the gecko, lifting it up by the tail with both hands and slapping in down on a waist-high rock.
"I like helping people," I answer honestly, as Sunny draws an old, wooden-handled skinning knife. "Just… can't stand being useless, you know?"
Sunny nodded, a pensive look on her face.
"Here, take a look at this," she gestured, tapping the gecko with the end of her knife. "The hardest part about skinnin' a gecko is how you start. Watch carefully now, I'll show ya how it's done."
Xxxx
The front door creaks as I re-enter Doc Mitchell's house. The noise of someone talking is faint, but noticeable, so I quietly set down my pack down on the cabinet next to the door, glancing briefly into the mirror and distractedly brushing my bangs over one ear.
"…not like I expect you to have a family history of gettin' shot in the head," Doc Mitchell's voice says, coming from down the hall.
I pause, carefully closely the door. Briefly, my right hand brushes the holster Sunny gave me, my fingers trailing along the grip of my borrowed Browning Hi-Power 9mm.
"I… I don't know," says a woman's voice, hesitant and wary, and so very familiar. "I can't remember much."
"I thought that might happen," Doc Mitchel sighs, as the leather of his chair squeaks. "With head wounds, the effects are often a mite unpredictable. Unfortunately, there's no real way of telling if you'll get better or not."
Softly, I walk towards the living room, moving slowly and methodically, my steps silent as I keep my feet close to the wall.
Walking quietly isn't really that hard, when you get down to it. Anyone who knows basic science has already learned some of the essential bits; at the basic level, noise is wasted energy. You have to shift your weight just enough to support your body, without putting too much weight on the ground.
Honestly, I don't even notice when I do it any more. When learning the higher katas in karate, proper balance and weight support is a requirement.
Quietly, I lean against the doorway, watching as Doc Mitchell comforts the woman sitting before him. She was clad in a worn set of loose underwear, but her hunched shoulders and distressed voice drive any sexual thoughts from my head.
Carefully, I inspect her, noting the faded scar tissue running along the back of her left arm; must've been a burn. A faint line slanted down her right arm, reminiscent of a wound from a blade.
But the most distinctive scars were the harsh, jagged diagonal lines slashing up her back, marring otherwise smooth skin. The scar tissue was lumpy and twisted. Unable to help it, I stare, my jaw loose as I gaze at what has to be marks from a whip. Ugly and uneven, they stand out, and I can't help but gawk at their horrific appearance.
I grunt, an unconscious noise of pity slipping from my mouth, and she snaps around, her movements smooth and instinctive. Her hand twitches for a pistol, grasping nothing but the fabric of her underwear. Her short blond hair flutters around her head, cut unevenly and revealing the line of stitches around her forehead.
"I'll give you two some space," Doc Mitchell mutters, nodding to me as he steps past me.
His boots click on the dusty wooden floor, ringing in the sudden silence as the Courier stares at me, her lips drawn into a tight line as she narrows her eyes. The front door shuts with a soft thud, and I repress the urge to fidget.
"I'm Nick," I say, my words loud in the suddenly quiet room, as I raise my hands, showing open palms. "I don't mean you any harm... on my honor – you've got nothin' to fear from me."
"Honor…" the Courier sighs, shaking her head sluggishly. "That doesn't exist any more."
"Doesn't change the fact that I don't want to hurt you," I reply, stepping forward and smiling gently, like I was comforting another student at the dojo. "What's your name?"
'I… I don't know," the Courier whispers, her head sagging. "I don't know…"
My chest twinges, and I step closer, resting a hand on her shoulder.
She twists instinctively, pulling her shoulder back - I pull my hand back quickly, as her harsh gaze bores a hole in my hand.
"I can't offer you much," I tell her, crouching down and coming level with her eyes. "But I'm going after the bastard that shot you. He's got something I want, and I figure I owe him two bullets."
The Courier looks up, and I meet her gaze firmly, my neck tingling slightly at the her unnatural stare.
"You're a Courier, right?" I ask, despite knowing full well she is. "My route swings by Primm – you can probably get some answers from Johnson Nash there. Who knows, maybe he has some information that can help."
"…Why?" the Courier asks, her voice quiet. "Why would you help me? I don't have anything to pay you with."
"Because one less bastard in the world is worth it – because I can't stand someone like that running loose out here," I say, a sad smile twitching on my face. "And maybe it's just because the same fancy-pants bastard that shot you also stole something important, and I've been contracted to get it back. If you want, I can help you get supplies, armor, weapons, a shot at revenge… and ten thousand caps."
"Who hired you?" the Courier inquires, her eyes hardening as her shoulders tense.
"The big boss himself," I drawl, my expression souring at the thought. "Mr. House."
"The package was for the Strip," the Courier recalls. "It was for him, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," I shrug, standing back up and walking around the couch. "I guess he wants it back pretty badly."
"Ten thousand caps…" the Courier muses, tilting her head. "Alright… I'm in."
"Good," I respond, smirking. "Getting to 'Vegas'll be hard enough as it is; havin' someone to watch my back'll work wonders in the long run."
The Courier nods, smiling hesitantly in reply.
"First, though, I think there might be some work in town for us," I say, extending my right hand to the seated Courier. "What'd'ya say we head down to the bar, get some grub, and see what's happening around town?"
"Alright," the Courier agrees, taking my hand and pulling herself up. "Doc Mitchell said he had some extra supplies that I could have. I'll armor up and meet you at the saloon."
Firmly, I shake her hand and walk away, pretending not to notice as the Courier immediately glances at a nearby mirror, a shaky hand stretching up to her forehead, where the stitches hold her skull together.
Xxxx
"…don't hand him over soon, I'm going to get my friends and we're burning this town to the ground, got it?" the man in blue demanded angrily, shaking his fist at the woman behind the bar.
"What, you can't quite manage to do it on your own?" I inquire, my instinctive jibe coming out before I can stop it.
The man turns to face me, his plain, scar-specked face glaring angrily at me as I walk up to him, shrugging. Clad in a worn prison uniform of dark pants and an unbuttoned blue jacket, the man exudes an air of bravado, but he holds his shoulders like a weightlifter, despite being no bigger than me.
"You understand who you're messing with, kid?" the man growls, his right hand stretching down his side, towards the holstered revolver.
"A criminal," I say, smiling to compensate for my nervously twitching legs. "What'ya do, Joe Cobb? 'Robbed some people, burned some things, killed a few guys?' Real tough customer we got here, folks."
Unable to help it, a few of the locals chuckle, and Joe Cobb's angry look turns murderous.
"Look around, tough guy," I tell him, gesturing at the other dozen people in the bar, talking quickly as my legs start to visibly shake. "Sure, you can probably kill me, but do you think these fine folks around me are just going to sit here and watch as you spill blood in their town?"
Joe Cobb's hand races down to his revolver, but just as he touches it, my foot drills into his stomach, smashing into the loose fabric without any resistance. The lunging front kick is fast, and Joe Cobb bends, his eyes wide.
He stumbles back, but I'm already on him, a fist crashing into his temple. His head snaps to the side, and my other hand cuts into his windpipe, the bastardized palm-heel strike hitting with the outside edge of my hand.
For a moment, I hesitate, as Joe Cobb reels backwards, choking gasps rattling from his mouth. His panicked expression sticks firmly in my mind.
Bizarrely, I wonder why he didn't block the strikes. That notion confuses me for a moment, until I realize I'm not in the dojo – that I'm not sparring, and that for once, this isn't training.
Pain erupts along the back of my head, and I drop to my knees as shards of glass stab into my head, the bottle shattering on my skull.
Without thinking about it, I roll forward the moment my knees touch the floor, just as a second bottle flashes by, missing my head by inches.
The roll is ungainly and ugly, and it carries me right into Joe Cobb's legs. He goes down, falling awkwardly as our legs tangle. The rough wooden floor sends splinters into my exposed arms, and Joe Cobb's back arcs upwards as it hits.
Joe Cobb reacts admirably, and blows swiftly rain down on me, making my eyes water and my jaw ache. Immediately, I smash down with a blind hammer-fist, and the blows stop as a howl of anguish comes from Joe Cobb.
Blinking as my vision blurs, I scramble up, kneeling on the convict's stomach. Any reservations about striking another person are gone, replaced with the roaring rush of adrenaline.
Furious, my fist cracks into Joe Cobb's head, as I pummel the pinned man's face, looking less like a sempai instructor and more like barbaric brawler.
I hit him again and again, swearing under my breath as blows cascade onto the convict's already bruised face.
Three more punches slam into Joe Cobb, and then the sound of a bottle shattering behind me brings me out of my berserker rage.
Quickly, I rise to my feet, my feet shuffling quickly as I hop backwards, away from the bar. A fist flies through the air, right where I had just been.
Blinking quickly, I grasp the situation quickly, cursing under my breath. Two of the 'locals' are attacking the locals, as the Goodsprings settlers defend their bar, and a third disguised Powder Ganger is charging at me, his other hand shooting forward. It looks like Joe Cobb wasn't as stupid as he looked; he'd though ahead enough to have a few of his boys disguised as travellers.
My head's spinning, but that isn't anything new. Guided half by sight and half by instinct, my left hand slips forward, smacking the Powder Ganger's fist to the side. My right hand shoots out, tilting at just the right angle, crunching into the man's throat and cutting off his air.
Lack of air will make most people stop dead – and this convict is no different. He stops, his guard dropping and his eyes flicking downwards.
That half-second of hesitation is all I need. I've been told that my combinations are fairly predictable by my instructors, but that that isn't necessarily a bad thing, as long as the combinations are effective. The limit of a good front kick is the length of your leg – but the limit of a good lunging front kick is much farther.
Once more, my foot buries itself in someone's stomach, driving the man backwards and opening him up for my follow-through.
The Ganger is big, but like most of the people around here, he can't afford to eat enough to support more muscle mass. He's large, sure… but everyone has weak points. After eight years of martial arts, I've come across dozens of metaphors and explanations for the 'phenomenon' of fighting; the most apt one claims that sparring in a dojo is akin to a game of chess, whereas fighting in a brawl is a game of speed chess. The key to winning is being able to strategize on the fly – being able to attack instead of react.
My follow-up strike hits the bridge of his nose; making his eyes water and distracting him. Like twin snakes, my arms weave around his guard, clasping together on the back of his lower neck and pulling him forward, just as my right knee smashes into his groin.
It didn't matter that the Powder Ganger outweighed me by twenty pounds; because the moment he started being reactive instead of proactive, he had already lost.
The man crumples.
I slam another palm-heel into his head, and he falls back, knocking over a table.
A ragged breath slips out from my mouth, and I back up quickly, looking for the next opponent. My eyes scan in front of me, but there's nobody left. Four battered locals in torn cloth and dusty leathers stand over the other two disguised Powder Gangers, two of them clutching broken chair legs.
The locals look at me, tensing for a fight, but I shake my head, waving calmly at them.
"Not looking for a fight," I mutter, breathing deeply as I try to get my stride back.
"Bullshit," one of the locals retorts, looking furious. "You just started a goddamn war, you idiot. The Powder Gangers aren't gonna just forget this. Goddammit, kid, you've just damned the whole damn town."
The others nod in agreement, and I pause, as the soaring high of my adrenaline rush drains away. A warm trickle of liquid slips down the back of my neck, and I glance at the shard of glass strewn across the floor, some laced with my blood. Head wounds bleed a lot, I remember distantly. Already, some of the blood is seeping into my blue V-neck, running down the small of my back. I still can't quite feel the pain, but I know it'll arrive soon enough, as the adrenaline fully wears off.
"We were neutral, son," the bartender, Trudy, says, similarly disapproving. "You've forced us to choose a side."
"You didn't have a choice in the first place," someone says behind me.
Boots clicking on the wooden floorboards as I turn around, the Courier walks past Joe Cobb's motionless form and nudges the Powder Ganger with her toe. The Browning Hi-Power 9mm in her hand is loaded, and her gaze shifts around the room emotionlessly, like she's looking at targets. Leather pants and a light jacket fit over her slim frame, the her newly acquired Pip-Boy rests on her left forearm.
"They may dress well, but they're just another gang of raiders," the Courier says, her words carrying throughout the dusty bar. "Whatever they said about leaving you alone is a lie. They're nothing more than scum. Talking with them was never an option."
"Then what do we do?" another local asks, glancing at his neighbors in fear. "They've got guns, bombs, and a lot more people than us."
"They prey on weakness," the Courier tells him, stepping forward and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, looking at each of the locals in turn. "If they think that taking the town isn't worth losing that many people, they won't attack again."
"But how do we beat the first attack?" Trudy asks, crossing her arms. "We're not soldiers, girl. We've got no armor, and our guns are barely good enough for geckos."
"The human body is surprisingly weak," I note, poking the unconscious raider at my feet. ".22 or not, everyone dies if you hit them in the head. Besides, the road into town is pretty empty – the only real cover is that wrecked house, and if we lace a few demolition charges along it, we can wipe most of 'em out pretty quickly."
"Easy Pete's got some dynamite buried out in the hills," one of the locals offers.
"That'd work," I nod, as the Courier holsters her pistol and bends down, pulling a roll of duct tape from the satchel-pack at her side.
I watch as she quickly wraps the wrists and ankles of the Powder Gangers, and I can't shake the uneasy feeling that something is wrong.
"Help me carry them out," she says, turning to me. "I'll take their feet."
"Uh… I'm going to see Doc Mitchell," I say cautiously, all too aware of the slow drip of blood down my neck.
"Here," Trudy says, offering me a somewhat clean rag. "Press this against it."
Wincing as the rough cloth presses against the wound, I grit my teeth and nod in thanks, before striding out of the bar and heading to Doc Mitchell's house.
Xxxx
By the time Doc Mitchell has plucked the fragments of glass from my head and wrapped a bandaged around it, the sun is starting to set in the west, though the sandy-dirt is still warm from its rays.
"I think your Courier friend is doing something down by the saloon," Doc Mitchell says, frowning as he moves away from the window. "Look's like most of town is already down there. Why don't we go take a look?"
"Okay," I reply, feeling that uneasy sensation returning as Doc Mitchell offers me a thin brown gecko-hide jacket.
I can't help but lightly touch the bandage wrapping around my head – while Doc Mitchell had done a fine job, he'd been forced to wrap the bandages around my forehead and my nose to keep the dressing tight. Every time I turn my head, a slight stab of pain pierces my head, and I can't help but realize just how serious this situation really is.
Doc Mitchell was right when he said most of town had already arrived – Goodsprings only had about forty or fifty people, but everyone is present, down to a few young kids poking their heads out around their parent's backs.
The wind dies down as the Courier steps in front of the crowd, the dust already sticking to her pants. For a brief moment, I look at her hair, where Doc Mitchell had given her a crude haircut so that he could get to the bullet wound; perhaps it had resembled a hair style before, but now it was brutally simple, almost like a soldier's haircut.
The Powder Gangers knelt before her, their wrists bound in duct tape behind their backs, and their mouths wrapped shut. One of them squirms for a moment, wrestling with his bonds, but the Courier merely points her pistol at him, and he stops moving entirely.
"People of Goodsprings," the Courier calls out, lowering her pistol and turning to the crowd. "These men are members of the so-called 'Powder Gangers'. They say that if you turn over Ringo, they will leave you in peace. But that's a lie."
One of the locals turns to his neighbor, and whispers a few words. The other man nods, and together they turn away, gathering up the few children present and quickly shepherding them away from the gathering.
Smart of them, I think grimly, as they pulled the curious children away. I don't think this is going to end well at all.
"The food and water stores in the NCRCF can't last forever," the Courier continues. "When they run out, the Powder Gangers will be searching for whatever supplies they can find, and they won't ask nicely for them. This isn't a matter of diplomacy or negotiation – this is a matter of survival. If you want to out last the Powder Gangers, then you've got to show them that you aren't afraid."
"Ringo isn't one of us!" one of the locals shouts. "Why should we defend him?"
"This isn't about Ringo," the Courier replies firmly. "That's just an excuse for them to close in, so that they can get close to town. They want you to fight amongst yourself, to argue about Ringo, until they're already in your door. This situation isn't impossible, people; if we send them running fast enough, the Powder Gangers will never come back."
"And how do we do that?" Trudy demands, crossing her arms.
"Simple," the Courier tells them, drawing her pistol. "We kill every single one we see."
Turning, the Courier fires four times, the bang of her pistol earsplitting, as she emotionlessly executes the kneeling Powder Gangers with headshots. Each bullet sends blood splattering across the split asphalt of the old highway, and the bodies crumple to the dusty ground like dolls with their strings cut.
My stomach heaves, and I clamp down on it, my face pale as I fight the urge to hurl.
The crowd was silent as the Courier turned to face them.
"It's all about sending a message," the Courier says.