Don't Feed the Yao Guai: Let's Play Fallout 3

[Balmas]

So, welcome, one and all, to my first Fallout 3 "Let's Play!"

Here's how this is going to work. Your job is to tell me how to play, and my job is to do what you say. Posts will be daily, posts will be random, and-- I hope-- posts will be fun!

Oh, and one other rule: No deaths.

That's right, this is a permadeath run through Fallout. If I die, that's it. Game over. No respawn, no save-scumming, no do-over. If I fall off a cliff and break my face, that's it.

And now, the first entry!

August 17, 2077

Call me Ishmael.

Actually, know what? Don’t. Sure, it’s the name on my birth certificate, but so long as I’m doing this whole “Leave the Vault” thing, I might as well make some changes. Goodbye, Ishmael, hello…

Crap. What do I call myself?

I mean, I’ve thought about it before. Life in Vault 101 is… shall we say pedantic? Dull? No, those aren’t quite strong enough. No, Vault life is downright boring, and I’d know! When I talked Mr. Brotch into tampering with my GOAT test results, I thought that life as a Vault Loyalty inspector would be exciting! You know, find out who’s who, what the dirt is on everyone, maybe leverage it into some good deals for myself.

Nope. Turns out, the most exciting thing a vault loyalty inspector does is go down and help people get back into their locked apartments. I’m looking at you, Gomez. Really, you’re part of security; shouldn’t you have—Oh, I dunno, keys?

As a result of that, I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I’d want to be called, instead of Ishmael. Who has a name like that, anyway? Dad says that Mom always wanted it for me; after all, it’s a name of some old dude in the Bible.

Great. What’s the Bible, Dad? You’ve got that quote on the wall that you won’t shut up about; you’ve named me after some guy in the book that no-one’s ever read; and now you bloody well leave me hanging, facing the Overseer and his task-force of insane loyalists.

I’m rambling, aren’t I.

Eh, we’ll get to the name issue later on. For now, let me get to why I’m doing this at all. See, this morning was… well, insane. Dad’s gone, Jonas is dead, I just beat five my co-workers to a bloody pulp, and to top it all off, I’m going to have to leave the vault.

Eff my life.

So, what do you want to know about first?

[Tychris1]

Alrighty then *Cracks knuckles* Time to participate in my first let's play, and present all my suggestions like a little devil on the shoulder.

Well, right off the bat you should rename yourself to Garret Bobby Fergerson. That's the name of some important guy right? Was history your strong suit? Doesn't sound like it.....

In any event, who can you actually trust and reliably call a "friend" at the moment? Those are important things to note since having backup is the difference between life and death. Finally, how badly do you want excitement and action? There are quite a few adventures to be had outside the vault. Speaking of which, get going! Run! Get out of the vault asap! Those bastards are gunning for you, so slip out before they can mob up on you!

[Wookieetank]

You should head northwest :smallwink:

[Ebon_Drake]

No deaths? This could be the world's shortest Let's Play...

How did you do in your GOAT? I'm thinking skills in sneakiness would be useful.

[Balmas]

So, it turns out that two hours of play gives a lot of stuff about which I can write. This will probably be about three days of writing for every day's worth of play.

For the Goat, I talked Mr. Brotch into just letting me tag the skills. I then rearranged them on leaving the vault.

Inside the Vault stats
Ishmael, Level 1 beatnik
S: 10
P: 5
E: 9
C: 1
I: 5
A: 5
L: 5

Tagged skills: Medicine, Melee, Unarmed

Entry two!
//August 18, 2077//

Hmm. Fergerson… I like the sound of that. Garret Bobby seems a bit too long, though. It won’t fit on any name-tag. First-last-name works, though.

Anyway, I suppose I should start at the beginning. After all, it’s tradition and all that. My story begins with a dream, rudely being interrupted by Amata. I love the girl—in a totally platonic way, of course—but she really needs to learn some things about personal space.

“Lemme sleep,” I groan, shaking off her hands. After all, turning keys is tiring work.

“No! You have to get up now!” Maybe it's the urgency in her voice or simply the fact that it's my birthday, but I get up. Yeah, you got that right. Worst day of my life, on my birthday. Ain’t life grand?

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Blearily, I rub the sleep from my eyes and stare at the hyperventilating girl in front of my bed.

“You have to get out of here now!” Oh yeah, why? “You’re father’s gone and my father’s gone mad!”

Okay, sleepiness gone.

She goes on to tell me that Dad, being the genius doctor that he is, left the vault. I’m sorry, but isn’t this Vault 101? You know, “No-one ever enters, no-one ever leaves?” It’s the second thing you learn in kindergarten, right after the fact that you should never eat the crackers. (Still good after 200 years? Yeah, those can’t be good for you.)

So, let’s say that Dad really did leave the vault, and didn’t, say, find a chill spot in maintenance to indulge in some Med-X. (Yeah, Dad, I know those empty syringes in the medical boxes weren’t always that way.) What does that have to do with me?

Right, Jonas dead. Why’d the overseer do that anyway? Did Jonas know about the Overseer’s secret stash? No, Amata says, he just had the guards beat him down for knowing my deadbeat dad. That’s all kinds of promising for me, now isn’t it?

She shoves a pistol in my hands and tells me that the only possible way for me to survive is to leave the vault through a secret tunnel in her daddy’s office. Um, yeah, Amata? Can we talk? You remember why we’re in the vault, right? Maybe it’s because the outside is a hellish nuclear wasteland? Those tend to be a bit hard on the skin; I’ll need a lot of lotion if I’m to keep my skin fresh.

Besides, are those alarms I hear? Yeah, the overseer’s on the broadcaster, telling everyone to stay in their room. Jonas was probably just out of his room. I should stay here where it’s safe. You know, and not get my skull beaten in.

Instead, good old daddy’s girl all but shoves me out of the door. I only just have time to grab my things before she runs ahead… and right past the security guard.

I’m beginning to suspect that she doesn’t like me.

Now, if I were a security guard, instead of a—sigh—loyalty inspector, I’d think to go after the girl running past me. After all, she’s just as much out of her room as I am, and it’ll score some brownie points with the boss to make sure that she’s safe. Nope, the much greater threat is the redhead poking his head out of his room.

This is apparently punishable by death, since he’s quick to pull out a police baton and chase me into my apartment. Kay, I’m in my room now, so bloody well leave me alone, already! Ow! Quit it!

Know what? Screw this. Stumbling back against the desk, I grab around for something—anything—with which to defend myself. My fingers close around the handle of my old baseball bat, and I bring it around in a resounding crunch against his temple.

It… feels kind of good, to tell the truth, so I do it again. And again. I don’t stop until I hit shoulder, and his head is a bloody pulp.

I stand over him, chest heaving, blood dripping off of my new best friend. I just killed a man. In self-defense, granted, but still. If I wasn’t in it before, I am now. There isn’t a place for me here, so I’ll just have to… Gah, I’m gonna have to do what Amata says. This can’t be a good sign for the world’s status.

My friend needs a name, though. I grab a pen and scrawl “Home Run” on the hickory stick, and sneak out of my room.

Sneaking is apparently not my forte, though, since even Butch can spot me. “You gotta help me!” he cries. The tears on his cheeks make them shine even more than his greasy hair. (On a side note, it’s generally a bad idea to assign the task of hairdresser to the man whose tastes in hair products tend towards Vaseline.) “The radroaches! They’re going to get my mom!”

Maybe it’s the security armor I grabbed that makes him think I’m willing to do this. “Ah, Butch. If only you knew what ‘irony’ meant.”

He’s desperate, I can tell. Part of me wants to just linger here a few minutes. Serve the jerk right if he loses his mom because he’s a coward. The other half of me is horrified at even having such a thought, and insisting that I am a horrible person. Maybe I am. I grin at Butch, letting him stew for a few more seconds before rushing off to his apartment. After all, I might be able to score some good loot from his room.

It’s a matter of seconds before I’m picking radroach meat off of my bat, and resisting the temptation to employ the bat on the simpering jerk. Sure, the blubbering fool gave me his jacket, but what do I want that for? It’s only a reminder of him; useful for burning in effigy, but not much else.

Sneaking proves unwise again as I come upon Officer Gomez. He’s slightly wiser, in that he sees the blood and guts slowly drying on Home Run and decides that fighting me would be a bad idea. He shoos me on my way and says to get out of the Vault.

I’m not the only guy with the idea to leave the Vault. Tom and his wife rush past me… and somehow don’t notice the nice pistols that the guards are holding. A hail of bullets cuts down the young couple, providing the perfect distraction for me to rush in and beat the guards. Oooh! Pistols and armor! Score!

Here’s where the events get a little mixed up. I’m sneaking my way down the hallway, and look into the security station in passing. The security chief has Amata, and the overseer is working on her in the Good guard, Bad guard routine. Go get ‘em, Amata. Don’t tell them anything.

Except… the door is open. And officer Mack is looking at me.

For once, I’m only too glad to help Home Run on his burgeoning career as a murder implement. Mack’s a jerk.

Amata flees, leaving me to deal with her dad. You know, Amata, you said that you were leaving to see if you couldn’t talk some sense into your dad. Ace work there, girl. Wanna come back and give it a second shot?

The overseer demands that I hand over my weapons and give myself up. Yeah… bloodspattered armor, weapon dangling bits of skin… This can only end well. Telling him to get bent, I leave. Onwards, to the outside!

The guards have locked the door, and so I need to get a bit tricky. Like Amata said, the terminal in his office leads to a secret passage. Great going, Overseer. Noone will ever guess that ‘Amata’ is your super-secret password. Really? Clingy much?

His desk hisses up on pillars, and the floor draws back into itself. My feet clank on the metal stairs as I run down, bopping the electric panel that quietly shuts the desk behind me.

A few radroaches later, I'm there. The great metal gear of a door stands waiting in its frame. For a second, all I can do is stare at it in horror. Once I leave… there’s no going back. Or if I do come back, it will be heavily armed, with the intent to cleanse the overseer’s moronic policies.

With that somewhat heartening thought in mind, I mash the control panel. The door shrieks, and pulls back into the vault before rolling aside. Man, how did I sleep through this when Dad left?

“My god… you actually did it!” I turn with a manly yelp of controlled alarm. If Amata ever tells you that I shrieked like a girl, don’t believe her.

Yeah, you bet I did. I can do whatever I want. Yet… those skeletons outside the doorway, clutching signs… they aren’t the most promising sign of survivability. I grin nervously at Amata, and hook a thumb at the door. “Wanna come with?”

Whaddya mean, your place is here? If I hadn’t run in and beat Mack to a deservedly bloody pulp, you’d be under the hot-light right now!

You’re sure? Oops, time to go! So nice to see you, Officers Wolfe and Wilkins! I have a friend I’ll bet you’re dying to meet…

Two beatings later and two suits of armor heavier, I stand in the gear-shaped door of the Vault. Ahead of me, almost lost in a mist of light, I can see a small gateway. I stride boldly forth, not cringing at all as my feet rattle and crunch through the pile of bones at the vault entryway. It’s a narrow tunnel, but for someone who was born and raised in a Vault, that’s really not a problem. I turn at the narrow grate that separates me from the rest of the world, looking back as the giant gear rumbles back into place. For better or worse, I’m stuck out here.

Welp, Ferguson, better get going. With a push, I’m out.

Good luck, me. I’m gonna need it.


Before leaving the vault, I changed the stats to better survive the wasteland.
Ferguson, Level 2 spook

S: 5
P: 6 (Intense training)
E: 5
C: 1 (yay dump stat!)
I: 9
A: 6
L: 9

Tagged skills: Small Guns, Lockpick, Repair

Perk Get! Intense Training (Perception)

Now, I've got two hours of gameplay to type up. I'll try to get it all done by tomorrow, and then we'll get to the Tell-Ferguson-where-to-go.

Mods being used:
Little Macintosh: Custom .44 revolver
Zebra Carbine: Custom scoped, silenced assault rifle. I have a gun that shoots fire!
Project Reality: Yay! Nights are darker, and I get rained on!
Enclave Radio Enhanced: More patriotic! More songs!
On the Road Radio: A selection of oldish songs
X-1 Tales of Wonder: 30s sci-fi radio programs!


Thank you for your interest, everyone! I'll do my best not to disappoint!

[Tychris1]

*Rubs hands maliciously together*

Good, good, he's already taken a taste for blood. One step closer to creating Ferguson the Raider. Excellent.........

[Balmas]

*quietly hides the bodies of the three scavengers he's killed so far* Raider? Whachoo talkin' bout, foo'?

[Balmas]

//Still August 18, 2077//

Light.

For a moment, all I can think is that the stories were true, and that there’s nothing out here. Are the bombs still going off? Is that why I feel this heat and can’t see…

Oh.

As my eyes slowly adjust, and I get over my feeling like a fool, I take a look around. Makes sense, right? Get the lay of the land, figure out where to go first.

The land is… grey. That’s the first impression that it gives. Rocks litter the landscape in between shattered and broken houses. I hop down the rocks leading up to Vault 101, landing lightly on what looks like a rocky path. One direction seems as good as the other, so I trundle off to the left. A puddle formed in a crack in the road makes me cringe; is all water out here so dirty and brown? It tastes brackish and stale as I take a sip; completely different from the clear, clean, if admittedly just as stale water of the Vault.

I pause as something wafts to me over the hot breeze. Is that… Tuba? Hiding behind the corner of a house, I watch as a small sphere floats by, blasting music, heavy on brass and marching drums. For all the world, the impression that comes to me is that someone stuck a balloon in a radroach and then puffed it up till it was a floating sphere.

It doesn’t seem to be hostile, or even to notice me, so I leave it alone. As I walk alone, I’m not sure whether to be horrified or awestruck by the devastation around me. I can see what looks like some form of bridge off to my right, but where would such a bridge go? It’s just there, raising up on pylons, a great mass of collapsing concrete. Sections have fallen off, crashing to the ground beneath.

So absorbed am I in my study of the broken bridge that I all but run into a sign planted by the side of the road. The letters are crudely scrawled on a sheet of wood, with an arrow pointing to the right. Megaton… I wonder what that is?

Obediently, I follow the arrow up the hill, kicking aside tin cans and pebbles. Green lights dance in my vision as my Pipboy kicks into gear. I poke my head out over a rock and pick at the switch that activates the targeting program in the same. Far in the distance, I can see a small clump of figures. I guess that my pip-boy might be able to take the hulking man with a gun and compare it with other images to come up with ‘Mercenary guard,’ but how the heck did it know that the other guy is named Crow? How can it see a robot and come back with the name ‘Deputy Weld?’

I drop the targeting program and cautiously come around the rock. Heartened by the lack of bullets in my immediate vicinity, I stand and approach them. Crow, the merchant, smiles at me, and indicates the armor I’m hauling around. Apparently, he’s a trader of some sort, but he’s got to be full of it; he only wants bottle caps, and says he’ll give me seventy caps for what I’m carrying. Bull, says I! What do you need with bottle caps? You can’t use them to feed yourself or make explosives, out of them, right? Why bother with caps?

Ugh. Fine, I’ll take your stupid caps.

As I walk up to the robot, it squawks, “Welcome to Megaton. The bomb is perfectly safe, we promise.”

Hold up. Bomb? Excuse me? A prop above the entryway spins into motion, drawing back two huge protective sheets over the gateway.

Yeah, no. We’re not going anywhere near a bomb. Turning right around, I march past the surprised Crow and around the tin-plated city. No stupid bomb’s going to get me, I can tell you that right now!

Once more, I pull out my pistol and begin to slowly move through the dusty wastes. My stealth pays off for once as I see… I have no idea what I’m seeing. It looks like a hairless dog with an elephant’s nose.

Big question is, can I kill it? I grin, sighting down the end of my pistol until it lines up with the hairless thing’s head. BLAM!

With a squeak of pain, the thing falls down, and I rush forward to see what the heck it is that I just killed. Only problem is that I can still hear the snuffling the thing was making before. Is it alive? Oh, wait, there’s a second one! This one must be a friend of the other guy, because he is definitely mad at me. Backpedaling, I blast away at the second rat-thing until it too falls dead.

I crouch, hoping to be able to skin the beasties, yet for some reason the little [HIDDEN] image isn’t popping up in my vision. Instead, there’s a flashing [DANGER] sign. No rats around, nothing red in my vision…

I hear the dogs at the same time that one latches onto my ankle. My legs burn as I spin, swearing wildly. There’s got to be seven of them, all barking and all mad. I’ve got no idea how I missed them, but here they are!

Once more, I resort to that most traditional of wartime activities: running away while firing wildly. My pistol stutters and barks, drumming a staccato rhythm of bullets into the skulls and torsos of the dogs chasing me.

Here’s a word to the wise: when running backwards, always make sure that you know what’s behind you. Too quickly, I find myself with my back to a large rock. BLAM! BLAM! Reload! BLAM!

The last dog turns to run, and I snarl at it. Nope, you came at me, you get to fight to the end! VATS guides a bullet into its scrawny rump, and it drops with a whimper.

Ow… I pull a needle from my pockets and jab my leg, feeling the stimpak working its magic. Now what? Would that stingy trader want some dog meat? I grab a leg from each dog, and haul it back around the corner to the Brahmin.

Oh, and by the way, Crow, thanks for your help. You’ve got a gun, your guard has a gun, bullets are flying… Help would have been nice! No, I suppose that a bit of human kindness is too much to ask from a merchant. Bloody pirates.

I shove the meat in his direction, saving some for myself. I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to see the day when I’d willingly shoot a dog and eat it within seconds of each other. I’m also curious how the hell my pipboy knows not only what it is I’m shoving down but just how healthy it is.

Still in a bad mood, I shuffle past the dead animals. This has been the worst birthday ever. Growling incoherently, I wind up and punch a rock.

Pro tip: Rocks are hard.

Biting back both tears and a curse, I pause. That rock had… It had moved, just a bit. A small smile creeps onto my face as I prod it again. Yeah, this rock was nowhere near as heavy as it ought to be.

With a heave, the rock shifts just enough to reveal a small cavity with a box inside it. A long box, too; it’s got a strange looking scoped rifle in it, along with a spare clip of bullets. The rifle is in no condition to fire anything but dust, but I keep it anyway; it’s heavy, but it’s good to have a little telescope on hand.

So, Megaton is clearly a bad place to start. I really shouldn’t question how the Pipboy is able to figure out that the town is named Megaton, and where exactly it is, but I don’t want to be there. Let’s head… Let’s follow the river south. At least, I think that’s a river; can’t quite make it out on the display. There’s a little map marker down towards the bottom of the map labeled “Riverboat Landing.” Let’s go that way.


There will be more later tonight, after I finish my homework.

[ReluctantReaper]

I cant wait for this to update again it is awesome! :D

[Balmas]

Ask, and ye shall receive!

//Still August 18, 2077//

Okay, new policy: shoot first, shoot fast, shoot often. If it moves, shoot it. If it is still moving, shoot it again. Repeat as often and as forcefully as is necessary.

I need more guns. And ammo. Ammo is a good thing. Can never have enough ammo.

I’ll admit, today marks a change in the way I do something. Innocents who are hurt? You have one group of people to blame. Well, two.

***

Walking south along the river seems like it’s a good plan. Things are peaceful, and where the river isn’t too crowded with broken boats, I can almost pretend that I’m walking along in one of the holotapes of the world before the War. It soothes me, help me forget about the people I’ve killed and the little voice whispering that everything here wants to kill me right back.

As I listen to the burbling river, I see a nice stone bridge to my left. It’s a simple thing, arches and a railing, but pleasing to the eye even with chunks missing. Looking across it, I can see a building of some sort, with a statue on top. It’s only fifty feet, so I decide to investigate.

Only problem is that the bridge is covered with these weird-looking round things. I think it’s safe to say that if there’s something unusual in the Wasteland, it’s a good idea to either stay as far away as possible. I crouch, moving as close as I dare. There seems to be some kind of sensor built into the top.

I seem to have moved too close, because the nearest one starts to beep and flash red on top. I rush forward, jiggling at the sensor. I must have done something right, because the light stopped flashing. It was still a few seconds before I felt safe to put it in the sack.

I repeat the process four more times before something fouls up. As I pick up one disarmed doohickey, I hear a sudden beeping noise. Nothing seems to have happened; in fact, the next cylinder isn’t anywhere near me!

That’s when I notice that the pavement below me is blinking red. Oh, sh-

The best way to describe what happens next is to imagine, just for a second, that your leg has exploded. My world is white, and when I pick myself up, all I can think of is to wonder what’s happened to my ears.

I pick myself up, screaming as my leg collapses beneath me. It feels like someone shoved an ice pick up my leg, and swirled it around for good measure. I may not be a doctor, but I’m pretty sure that legs don’t bend like that.

Wasn’t quite as red as that before, either.

All the nice little dots were are, too! Oh, this is a nice day! I think I’ll just sit over here on this bench with all the lovely elephants.

***

When I come to, the elephants are gone. Pity; I’ve only ever seen them in books. Leg is still feeling like it’s been put through the blender, though. I sigh as the stimpak sends its wave of coolness drifting down my leg. I don’t know what’s in these things, or whether someday down the line I’m going to wake up with a busted leg that never properly set, but for now, it’ll do.

I shake it out a bit before setting out at a light jog. Not a twinge, not a problem.

The lights in my compass light up; they’re green for now, but I keep my pistol handy. I can’t get that lucky.

I turn up towards the lights, climbing the stairs. Checking the soft click on my pip-boy shows that a new location has been marked: “Anchorage memorial.”

Don’t ask how it knows. Don’t ask how come—if it knows what and where it is—it doesn’t just mark the locations for me and spare us all the trouble.

Don’t ask what those three men in bulky armor all want. Actually, that’s a very good question; they’re well armed, and none of them are looking particularly friendly right now.

“Well, now…” I instantly know that I’m not going to like this guy; his voice is smug, smarmy, and just beggng for a bullet. “If it isn’t the little saint from the vault.”

Wait, what? Do I know you?

“We’ve been looking for you. Someone’s put quite a price on your head.”

Wat.

I’m sorry, but what? I’ve been out of the vault for less that twenty-four hours! How the hell do I have a price on my head? How does anyone know me? I haven’t set foot in a town! I’ve only talked to one person! Who would put a…

Crow. He’s the only possibility. He’s going to die, I swear it. One day, when I’m rich and powerful… He’ll never see it coming.

Oh wait, the smarmy voice is back. “What? You think you can walk around the Wasteland doing the things that you do and there isn’t going to be someone who takes notice?”

Well, considering that I haven’t actually done anything but sell some goods at half their value… Kinda, yeah.

“Such a shame. I hear that you coulda been something useful…”

I suppose that talking is useless? The guy nods smugly. Well, if you’re gonna be like that…

Time slows to a crawl as my targeting program kicks in. Oh, it feels so satisfying… the first shot makes him wince—odd, for a shot to the face. The second yields better results; he clutches at his face as my pistol roars a second time. The third time, he just slumps to the floor, his head a bloody mess.

Bullets rip into my security armor, and more importantly, into me! I gasp, clutching at a suddenly gaping stomach, aiming through the pain. Automatic fire turns the air into a storm of lead, all aimed at me.

You know, it’s kind of worrying when one man, armed with a pistol that he’s never used before in his life is able to kill three men who have superior arms and armor.

I’m able to patch together a workable suit of armor from the three men’s things—one combat plate here, dodge the nice bit with a 10mm hole in it. The assault rifle takes its place on my back right next to Home Run, and we’re on our way south.

Things are calm until I hit a second bridge. Now, it’s an intact, or at least mostly intact bridge across the river. A section has come crashing down, making a small ramp up to the section that actually crosses the irradiated water.

Oh, did I mention that? Yeah, I felt kind of thirsty, so I went down and scooped some up. My pip-boy started making this unholy clicking noise, and when I checked, the little radiation needle was dancing, bit by bit from green into the red. Even the water wants to kill me.

Anyway, the water’s not alone. As I creep along, I see lights on the edge of my compass. VATS zooms in, showing… Well, he looks human. Of course, anything with this garish a taste in dress is only borderline human, at best. Leather a-la-spikes is really not classical wear. Then again, my metal-and-bloodstains motif isn’t much better.

Whoops, lights just turned red. It’s too far a shot to make with my pistol; I’ll need to get a bit closer.

No, don’t go behind the pillar! I need to shoot you! Dammit!

Ah, there you are. Really, if I’m going to keep using this pistol, I’ll need to find another marker. You need a name.

Turns out that pondering the names of weapons is unwise when there are hostiles around. A second… VATS calls them raiders popped out from around the corner, opening fire with a small revolver. My targeting program was still recharging, so guess what?

If you guessed firing wildly, you guessed right! Bullet for you, and a bullet for you, and a bullet for your nice friend! Ooh! Dangit, I’m supposed to shoot you!

It’s the work of a moment to strip them of their weapons and ammo. The small silver revolver uses an ammo I don’t recognize; it’s larger than the ones I use in… really need a name for that pistol.

Onward! South we go!


Let's name a pistol!

[Ebon_Drake]

Were those Talon Company mercs you met? That's a surprisingly tough encounter for so early in the game :smalleek:

Anywho, the law of gun naming says you should give your favourite pistol a girl's name: Charlene, Vera, Winona, Mirabelle, Betsy etc. Don't ask me why, it's just how this thing works.

[Tychris1]

More shoulder devil advice :smallbiggrin:

Hey, listen kid. If your going to be naming that little doohickey if yours, then it has to have a name that strikes fear into others. Bane, Cold Death, and Blackheart are all good names for your pistol. Now, the wastelands been nothing but crap to you, its tried to put down how better you are then all the others, and it's about time you register that. That smug jerk? Those two guys with him? Pretty decently armed, if not perfectly skilled. Think of what someone as talented as you could accomplish if you got a group backing you? Or better yet, if you controlled your own group? The wasteland does not breed nice little civilizations, so why not benefit from the clique's it does make? Go ahead, find more of those leather heads. Well, smarter ones who don't run face first into bullets, and show them that your the boss.

[Balmas]

//Yup, even more August 18, 2011//

There comes a time in every man’s life where he has to ask certain questions, like “Why am I down in this sewer?” or “What the hell are you?”

BLAM! Mirabelle roars, tearing a hole in the vicious creature lurching towards me. It’s vaguely man shaped, if you’re willing to overlook the fact that men usually have at least some form of skin.

With a final blast, the thing falls, its fetid smell assaulting me. I cringe, looting its… ugh, its loincloth for whatever might be there. Funny that I don’t have any problems blasting a thing in the head, yet don’t really want to touch it.

The sewer is surprisingly well lit for something that’s been abandoned for two hundred years. All I had to do was push aside a small grate; you’d think that someone would have come in and tried looting it.

Maybe the other guys are smarter than I am; the fact that I’m risking my life for a few caps and whatever I can grab certainly seems to support this theory. At least this rifle I found on the shelf seems to do alright at killing them.

Maybe not… As I crouch, peering down the lack-of-a-scope, VATS zooms in on two ‘feral ghouls.’ Those roamers are kinda scary, so I draw a bead on that one first. With luck, a surprise attack will allow me to get a better shot and kill it faster.

The rifle roars, and hits the ghoul in the head. I’d be pleased with this, if it hadn’t hit the wrong ghoul. The pip-boy labeled this as a hunting rifle—how was anyone supposed to hunt with a rifle that had no scope and a bullet that goes five feet off course over a hundred yards?

No time to think about that; I shoot the smaller ghoul once more to finish it off, and pull the assault rifle from my back. It shudders in my hand, shooting one burst after another into the ghoul’s head. Brrt-brrt-click…

Well, crap.

The ghoul ignores my desperate attempt to slow it down with an assault rifle to the face. Luckily, I still have ammo for Mirabelle—just enough to finish it off.

Yup. I’m finding you a marker.

***

Twayayannng…]

I look down at the small wire under my foot, and follow the broken end from the small pin over to the spot on the ceiling. A trio of small orbs tinkles to the cement floor, and I scramble back. Whatever this is, it can’t be good.

Good on me, by the way. My armor is peppered with small bits of shrapnel as the grenades send shopping carts flying.

I’m not sure what I dislike more: creeping around so I can shoot zombies or creeping around so I can avoid blowing myself up. At least this place isn’t crawling with undead.

I creep around the pools of radioactive goop, pulling a knife to slash another trip-wire. Let’s see, if that wire goes over there, then that huge iron beam would have swung down and knocked me back into… Yeah, let’s disarm that bear-trap too.

Whatever’s back here had better be worth something good. I shove open the metal door, and for a moment, all I can do is just sit there, astounded. Who would be crazy enough to find a hole in the middle of the sewer and set it up as a home? You’d have to fight your way past all the ghouls every time you wanted to go out and get food!

Let’s see… red lights match up to those radroaches in the cage… and one other. Eh, it’s probably just a radroach. I poke at the little Nuka-cola lamp, wishing I could take it with me; it’s cool, in a retro kind of way.

Now, this computer on the other hand… I pull a wire from my pipboy and hook it up to a slot in the side of the computer. Check for past words…0 out of six, so let’s go through and eliminate all the words that have those letters… Well, that leaves a grand total of exactly one word left. Easy enough.

“Disengage Lock…” Sure, why not? A nice looking book, and a bottle… Okay, question: why, exactly, is this bottle glowing? Am I expected to drink this? “Nuka Cola Quantum…” Okay, definitely not drinking anything that has extra isotopes.

BLAM! The shotgun blast is mostly absorbed by my armor, but it still shoves me against the safe, scoring a lovely bruise on my cheek. I growl, drawing my pistol and slipping into VATS. It’s another one of those ghouls… ‘cept, VATS labels him Gallo. He doesn’t seem to be insane…

BLAM! Scratch that thought. Mirabelle sends three bullets towards his face, and he stumbles. He cries out, and starts to run away. My next two shots miss as the door flies open. I’m quick to run after him, but it turns out I shouldn’t have worried; as I turn the corner, I’m just in time to see the bear-trap close around Gallo’s leg.

I’m torn between laughing and crying, but blow this. He’s dead, I’m tired… Sparing one bullet each for the caged radroaches, I collapse on the bed and am asleep in seconds.

***

So, let’s see what this ghoulie had… The key I swiped from his body fits nicely into the slot of the door across the hallway. Maybe it’s a cannon, or a better rifle, or…

Dangit. Maybe it’s just a pile of useless crap! My pipboy lamp kicks on, and I sneer at the assortment of uselessness. A lawnmower, a steam gauge, some motorcycle gas tanks… Who stockpiles all this crap? I could drag it all to a seller, but it would take so long, and be worth so little…

Ugh. Worthless. Hmph. Maybe I can use this gas tank as a bomb of some sort. We’ll grab it anyway.

Consulting my local map shows that there’s an exit if I backtrack a bit. First though, let’s stop by the little home the ghoul had set up. There’s a lot to like—Nuka-Cola trucks, four of the same beverages, and some caps. I shove it all in the sack, and get going.

***

Minutes later, I wish I hadn’t.

“Dammit, die!” It doesn’t seem like the skittering thing is inclined to listen to me. Instead, it contents itself to chase me around the small factory. Luckily, radscorpions are only as fast as I am; that means that I can run around this walkway, and just run until it decides to die.

With a bit of work, I can prise the venom glands out of the scorpions tail; normally, I’d consider such an action to be flat-out insane, but it seems to have a pretty good value for its weight.

Heading outside, I can see the sun peeking up over the horizon. It seems strange that I spent most of a day inside a sewer, fighting zombies. It’s… kind of weird, to tell the truth. Is this going to be the rest of my life? Run around, shoot people, take their stuff, and do it all over again? A sobering thought, that.

I’m moving slowly—too slowly. I need to get rid of some of this stuff. Which means… ugh. I’m going to need to head to that town.

When I arrive, it must be around noon. Let’s go in carefully…

My first impression of Megaton is… Hat. That’s all that registers, is that the sheriff has a simply magnificent hat. He’s talking to me, but I’m not listening. I must have that hat.

In time, Ferguson. In time. We need to make sure that things are safe before we can get that hat. Which reminds me…

“What, the bomb? Oh, it’s perfectly safe!”

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that bombs were designed to be the opposite of safe. Don’t you think that maybe you could do something about that? Oh, you want me to do it? Yeah, I can’t think of anything that could go wrong with trusting a complete stranger with disarming a nuclear bomb in the middle of your town, can you?

Oh, right. Store. The mayor—or is that sheriff—points me up a ramp to a small store. Someone’s used a crayon to scribble “Craterside supply” on the iron sheet-wall over the door.

The door squeaks open under my timid push, revealing a dusty little store; to the right, a man in armor lounges against the wall, while a woman with a broom is pushing dirt from one side of the store to the other. “I’ll be right with you!” she burbles.

Alright, all I really want to do is get in, get the caps, and get out. This would be perfect… if it weren’t for the fact that she wants to babble on… something about a survival guide. “Hey!” she exclaims brightly, “You’re from the vault!” Um, yeah, but how’d you.. right, pip-boy. I suppose that makes sense.

Yeah, I’m from the vault. So what? Oh, you want a quote from a Vault Dweller? How’s this for a quote? I’m a king! His royal highness, Garret Bobby Ferguson the second, esquire, lord of Vault 101 and all it contains! I’ve come as an ambassador to free your people!

“Oh! It’s good to meet you, your highness. Will you accept this suit as a gift?”

I admit that I’m paraphrasing slightly. However, she swallows it! She accepts that I’m a king! Me, Ferguson of the bloody combat armor! How on earth did you survive this long? Oh, and you’re asking me for help with your survival guide? Screw that! Anything written by you is liable to be about as factual as unicorns running around in Washington DC!

Please, don’t let there be any unicorns in DC. I’ll feel really dumb.

Wait, you’re going to pay me? I… really don’t have that many caps. I mean, I took what I could from those Talon guys, and the raiders, and the one guy who thought I was trying to rob him… (In my defense, he was sleeping quite soundly. I thought he was dead, and he objected strenuously to having my hands in his pockets.) So, what’s the job?

Seriously? You want to get irradiated? Screw it, I’m out.

But first, I’ll trade you this raider armor for ammo and caps. Ammo is always a good thing. My guns need it to make shooty noises.

***

It takes me a few hours to get back to where I was on the river. It’s not too long before I come on a big, solidly built structure. For once, it doesn’t seem to be falling apart like everything else. Only problem is that there are these guys in metal suits of armor—Oh, I’m so jealous—that won’t let me go in! They’ve got a bit robot and these fancy looking guns, so I decide that right now might not be a good time to tick them off.

I keep going, wondering what that nasty smell might be. The buzz of rapid-fire gunshots sends me diving for cover before I realize that for once, they’re not aiming at me. No, the guy on top of the walls is aiming down at…

My gosh, you’re ugly! And it’s not just the minigun ripping you apart; you were ugly when you were made! I may not know much about the Wasteland, but whoever named you a centaur didn’t know jack about them! It… You look like two people started making love and then got melted together halfway through!

Oh, and the tongues? Not a good look, even if you only had one.

I keep going, letting the Brotherhood rip you apart. I’m getting close to the riverboat now, so-Egads, what are you? I grab Mirabelle and start firing wildly at the hulking thing. It’s got too many arms, and the bullets keep pinging off of its shell. As it rears up to swat at me, I land some lucky hits into its face, and it collapses on me.

I grunt, shoving it off of me and taking a claw as a trophy. It actually makes for some good eating.

And there’s the boat! Wonderful! I’m here, people! Come worship the ground on which I walk! Except not really, because, well, that would be kind of creepy.

The woman on the dock grabs a rifle, and I’m a second away from shooting first. Only thing is, she’s aiming somewhere else. A growl rips the air behind me, and I spin to shoot… I really have no idea what this is. It’s eight feet tall, and shaped vaguely like a man, albeit ripped and apparently covered with yellow rock. Luckily, he’s just as vulnerable to bullets as anyone else. And he’s got a rifle I can use to fix my old gun!

I talk to the ferryman, selling some meat and random junk for more caps. He explains that this ferry goes from near Rivet city to point Lookout. Wait, Rivet city?

Turns out that getting irradiated isn’t all that bad. It makes my skin crawl a bit as I skim across the bay, stopping to raid a medical cabinet in a half-sunken boat. (That’s actually a bit odd, I think. In two centuries, you’d think that a half-sunken boat would have made up its mind between up and down.)

Rivet City, as it turns out, is a giant boat. At least, that’s what it looks like. It’s floating in the water, and there’s a platform leading up to it. Trouble is, there’s no way to get across! It’s just a big boat, with no… Oh, there’s a bridge! It’s just built to swivel. Maybe if I… “Hello! Anybody home?”

Silence. Then, with a groaning like Thor is having his back scratched, the bridge begins to swivel towards me. The guard across from me halts me mid-bridge. Oy! Get that rifle out of my face! I’m just looking for my dad! Yes, really! Now shove off!

And don’t you feel stupid? If I was raider, now would be the perfect time to blow your face off! And then where would your township be?

To be honest, the only thing I’m looking for is something I can swipe and sell back to vendors. Yet it’s all—except for junk—tied down. Shopkeepers are looking at me suspiciously, guards don’t look like they like my bloodstain theme, and generally, I’m getting a ‘persona-non-grata’ vibe from everyone.

At least this little bobbyhead doesn’t seem like it’ll attract too much attention if it goes missing.

My pip-boy is clicking gently at me, telling me that I should perhaps avoid swimming in irradiated water in the future. And since I’ve got a distinct lack of radiation chems, that means I’m probably going to need some help from Moira. After all, she’s volunteered to pay me for my radiation.

Didn’t she say something about getting slightly more irradiated, though?

A swim back across the river, followed by a swift bath in Megaton’s town ‘pond’ takes care of that.

“Feeling a bit under the weather? Or over the Geiger counter?” Moira, words cannot describe how much I hate you. If I were any more irradiated, I’d be burning a hole in the floor. “Yeah, I can tell! You’re practically… Glowing!”

One day, Moira. One day.

“You’re a lucky one, you know!” she chirps. Yes, I’m lucky. Father gone missing, kicked out of my home, shot more times than I can count in the course of one day, irradiated as hell, and worst of all, dealing with you.

“At this level, most people don’t make it. But then, most people don’t have my help! I’ve never had a chance to test it out on someone so heavily dosed, but I’m sure it’ll work out fine.” Wait, what? “Exciting, isn’t it?”

No, Moira, no it really isn’t. What’re you doing? Get away from me! No way am I—Urk! Eugh!

Moira’s ‘treatment,’ if it could be considered such, consists of Brahmin milk, a couple magnets, and I quote, “a few happy thoughts.” I really don’t want to think back on it, thanks very much.

“Well, you’re alive!”

Okay, nothing that anybody says in that tone of voice can ever be good. It’s just waiting for a second shoe “but” to drop.

“But there was a little side effect.” I knew it! “A teeny, tiny, um… Mutation. But it seems to be benign, at least!” Sure, easy for you to say. You’re not the one with the cancerous growth who knows where. “Here, take a few radiation chems as my little way of saying, ‘I’m sorry I twisted your DNA like a kitten with a ball of yarn.’”

You know what, Moira? This doesn’t even the score. Your time will come. Until then, I suppose that I’d better curry your favor, and keep getting free stuff.

Now what?


Stats and notable loot:

Level four
Good

S: 5
P: 6
E: 6
C: 1
I: 10
A: 6
L: 9

Barter: 21
Big Guns: 19
Energy Weapons: 19
Explosives: 19
Lockpick: 50
Meidicine: 37
Melee Weapons: 19
Repair: 42
Science: 29
Small Guns: 42
Sneak: 45
Speech: 9
Unarmed: 19

Notable loot: Two assault rifles, two chinese assault rifles, Missile Launcher (with exactly one missile), Flamer, Sniper Rifle in poor repair, Little Macintosh (custom scoped .44 magnum, hunting rifle, silenced 10mm pistol)


I have to say, Ferguson is swiftly developing some unexpected, quite violent tendencies, thanks to his shoulder devil. We've now caught up to my two-hours of gameplay! Go us!

So, what now? Shall we go to Minefield, and get something to improve our sniper rifle? Shall we go kick raider trash in the megamart? Or shall we perhaps go to Arefu? What do?

[Tychris1]

The shoulder devil strikes again


"Listen kid, you want to get even with Moira? You want to get that cool hat? You want to kiss that smug town goodbye? I know just the way to do it. You outta go and prime that bomb to blow, wipe this little cesspit out, and REALLY irradiate Moira! In purging nuclear fire! That'll show the witch. But this town does have some uses, for starters you should get whatever miscreants are smart enough to follow you and do whatever it takes. Secondly you should go to the bar and get hammered, you don't have the rules of the vault on you anymore and it's time for the king of the wasteland to reap his rewards! Who knows, maybe you might even find something useful in there, or another wise guy like you yo get in on your rise to power. And lastly, after you've set this bomb, gathered your crew, and gotten your full of whatever you want, you should steal that hat. Kill him it you have to, he's dead anyway when this bomb goes off, and if he's so blind as to not figure the bomb is being primed then he deserves to die. The wasteland only has room for the strong, and you're the strongest man there."

[Balmas]

Okay, maybe not quite all the way caught up. I've already, well, killed off Burke. And disarmed the bomb.

(And killed some more raiders, but that's neither here nor there.)

[Ebon_Drake]

It's a while since I've played FO3, but disarming mines is tied to your explosives skill, right? If so I'm not sure your skill is good enough for Minefield yet. My vote would be to kill raiders (does that ever stop being fun?), then Arefu/some other sidequest(s), then minefield.

Also, maybe see if you can get a certain ex-raider in Megaton to join in the fun.

[Balmas]

YOU HAVE DIED

Cause of Death: Some Raider got very lucky and found the Firelance for me.

Continue? Y/N

(I zoomed in in VATS, and just sat there a moment to ponder how screwed I truly was.

For your info, the Firelance is a unique weapon, randomly found in the wasteland, that does 80 damage per shot, with a 100% critical rate for a total of 160 damage per shot.

Wait... that's what that flying comet thing was? I kind of wondered why the megamart was being shelled.

Seriously, in order for this to have happened, I needed to have come from that exact direction, and the raiders needed to have not been cleared out.

Yay for stupid deaths.)

[Alaris]

YOU HAVE DIED

Cause of Death: Some Raider got very lucky and found the Firelance for me.

Continue? Y/N

(I zoomed in in VATS, and just sat there a moment to ponder how screwed I truly was.

For your info, the Firelance is a unique weapon, randomly found in the wasteland, that does 80 damage per shot, with a 100% critical rate for a total of 160 damage per shot.

Wait... that's what that flying comet thing was? I kind of wondered why the megamart was being shelled.

Seriously, in order for this to have happened, I needed to have come from that exact direction, and the raiders needed to have not been cleared out.

Yay for stupid deaths.)

Well, that was a short Let's play. It was a nice read while it was here... better luck next time man. :P

[Balmas]

What say y'all? Continue? Restart? Perhaps use console commands to impose a penalty for dying?

[ReluctantReaper]

Id say continue because this is entertaining and that is such a random thing to have happen to you.. but then again maybe due to your second chance we should impose a penalty.. I just would have no idea what you have access too with console commands.

[Balmas]

Well, player.modav allows you to basically modify any and all personal values.

Some examples:

Player.modav carryweight -25 (Your max carryweight is now 25 pounds less than before.)
Player.modav Perception 5 (Add 5 to your perception)
Player.modav energyweapons 60 (add 60 to your energy weapons score, max 100.)
Player.modav carryweight 5000 (Never worry about weight again.)

Some other notables:

Player.addperk <perkID>
Player.removeperk <perkID.
Player.additem <itemID> <quantity>


For example, to become a fallout god:

player.additem 50f92 1
player.additem 2937e 100000
player.modav health 10000
player.setlevel 30
player.modav carryweight 5000
player.modav strength 10
player.modav perception 10
player.modav endurance 10
player.modav charisma 10
player.modav Intelligence 10
player.modav agility 10
player.modav luck 10
player.modav radresist 85
player.modav damageresist 85
player.modav fireresist 85
player.modav smallguns 100
player.modav actionpoints 200

Congrats: you now have tens in all Special stats. That gun you're holding? It's the one that the Mysterious stranger uses. It does 18000 damage per hit in a game where the toughest monster only has 2000 HP. It's the definition of overkill.

Oh wait, you're tougher than they are now. You have 10000+ HP, are level thirty, have maxed out resistances while in your skivvies, and can pretty much nail any shot, any time, anywhere.

And yet, you still can't get through a boarded over window. To get past this, type tcl and tgm in the console.

Welcome to godhood.

[Wookieetank]

I don't know if you can console command it, but having an amputated arm as a handicap would be interesting. Can only use 1 handed weapons, can't lock pick safes, reduced carry weight, etc. Would make for interesting RPing with how Ferguson is turning out. :smallbiggrin:

[Balmas]

I could console command the lower carrying capacity, but not the other stuff. It'd be much more difficult to play fallout 3 without rifles. New Vegas has a number of viable pistols, but I need my Lincoln's Repeater...

[Wookieetank]

I could console command the lower carrying capacity, but not the other stuff. It'd be much more difficult to play fallout 3 without rifles. New Vegas has a number of viable pistols, but I need my Lincoln's Repeater...

Fair enough. I've yet to have a play through of FO3 without heavy use of Lincoln's Repeater myself, so I fully understand. That thing is amazing.

[Ebon_Drake]

Ouch. I guess that is the point where killing raiders stops being fun.

A lower carry capacity seems fair, no need to excessively punish yourself for a flukey death. You could always just RP some kind of drawback for a while to reflect recovering from a serious injury without actually giving yourself a mechanical disadvantage.

[Balmas]

Then updates will resume tomorrow! The adventures of Ferguson the one-armed totally-not-a-raider shall continue!

[Balmas]

I hate homework. Hopefully, I'll be able to get a post up tonight.

[Wookieetank]

I hate homework. Hopefully, I'll be able to get a post up tonight.

You can do it! If necessary I find fire to be a helpful way of dealing with homework :smallwink:

[Balmas]

You can do it! If necessary I find fire to be a helpful way of dealing with homework :smallwink:

Fire is somewhat less effective when most, if not all of your homework is due online.

I suppose I could burn the teachers, but society seems to frown on that kind of behavior.

[Balmas]

The world swims around me as I open my eyes. This... this is not where I remember being last. But what was...

My brain explodes, pain temporarily overwhelming my search for memory. Lightning arcs between my ears, scorching it away. Something about... raiders?

Where am I? The light sways gently on its cord, making me screw my eyes shut. I'm...

I can't move. Holy crap, I can't move! The straps stretch, but don't allow me to do much more than wiggle.

"Oh, good, you're awake!"

Oh. See, that tells me exactly where I am. Only one man has a beard so fine.

"Doc Smith, if I'm not out of these restraints in five seconds..." I let the threat trail off. So I'm not the best at threats; Mirabelle is usually much more eloquent than I could ever hope to be.

"Don't worry; I'm not going to hurt you." No one who wants the best for you ever starts a sentence with those lines. "I just had to make sure that you wouldn't do anything rash after... well, you'll see."

I slip out of the loosening restraints. Let's see, data tab, access... the...

"What," I say, examining my wrist and restraining the urge to panic, "is this?"

He shifts nervously, rather conscious of the large pile of confiscated weapons behind him. "That would be the reason for your restraint."

There had been raiders... I remember... An explosion of some sort. A raider had pulled out what looked like a blaster straight out of Captain Cosmos. I laughed, until a blue blast lanced out and punctured a lung.

"I patched you up as best I could," he said, obviously nervous. "When that trader found you, he said that the raiders had just started to cut you up. Had some real trouble with that Pip-boy of yours, so they started lower down."

And now... what is this thing? I examine it, how the mount meets my wrist, and the hook catches the light.

"The wasteland is rather scarce on prosthetics," admits the doctor. "It's the best replacement hand I could make."

Okay, passing through shock and denial. Let's get straight to anger. "This," I seethe, "this is not a hand. This is a bent coat-hanger with duct tape wrapped around it!

This whole town is going to die. One way or another, everyone here will die.

But raiders first.

***

Pft! Mirabelle spits over the counter, that new silencer working wonders for her. I smile as the raider slumps down, falling between a pair of bent tin cans.

The Super-Duper Mart reeks of death; bent and mangled bodies sway on chains, their decapitated heads stacked up elsewhere. I can't decide which sensation is worse: the lingering taste of sick in my mouth, or the sheer satisfaction that I feel in seeing their heads pop off.

I stand from my crouch, and the raider behind the counter stares dumbly down the muzzle before trying to sound the alarm. Three silenced shots later, I'm collecting his junk and shoving it in my backpack. I still haven't figured out how to work my rifles with this hook, so it'll have to wait.

My head-up display shows three glowing bars around the corner, so I drop one of those strange discs from earlier just around the corner, and take a wild shot with my rifle to draw attention.

The look on the raider's face is a beautiful thing. It passes from anger, to shock, to realization, and as he turns to run, it makes one last transformation: a pile of goo.

Charging around the corner, I empty my clip into the two remaining raiders. Hacking a computer opens a door, showing a room chock full of medical supplies. Aren't I glad, too. It takes two stimpaks before I'm ready to move; those bullets may not pack much of a punch individually, but when you're trying to dodge a dozen at a time... I hiss, yanking my hand away from my side. Yeah, that's a broken rib.

As I make my way to the exit, I stop and rush behind a counter. Two new raiders make their way through the dingy, dirty doors. The taller one, his hair stained and gelled into a crude mohawk, looks up and curses as I send a grenade arcing to his feet.

I can't help but feel that this is the best I've felt all day.

Super-Duper Mart cleared! Where now, oh faithful readers?

[SilverLeaf167]

This reminds me of my own Skyrim let's play... maybe I should revive that thing already, that stupid break got stretched out ridiculously far. The same thing happened to me: a stupid death, after which the readers encouraged me to continue :smallbiggrin: My respawn penalty was just returning to the last point where you slept, though.

More on-topic, this is really fun to read and truly brings out the beauty that is Fallout. Keep up the good work.

[Balmas]

On the schedule: Tonight: Play Fallout 3.
Tomorrow: Type up Let's Play.
???
Profit.

Incidentally, I've decided that playing Fallout on Sunday is a bad idea. It's perhaps just a bit of superstition, since the first Permadeath LP I tried also ended while playing on a Sunday, and also due to a stupid death. (Ran out of overpass while sneaking up on Raiders.)

[Triaxx]

The most fun playthrough of Fo3 I ever had was playing pistols/one-handed only. In Fo3, it's the 10mm, and the Blackhawk. Those are the two best one-handed guns around. Add the Sawn-off shotgun, and the Plasma Pistol for tougher enemies and you can finish the game just like that.

[Balmas]

And now we get to go to Arefu!

I've got to learn how to trade; no matter what, I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm getting screwed out of more caps than I care to think about. When I leave Craterside Supply, I've got a few hundred caps from all the weapons I looted earned. Yet when I go back into ask her about the Minefield job, she's putting up that same hunting rifle with a hefty price upgrade; the same rifle I sold for around thirty caps is suddenly fifty caps. What a gyp.

She dances around the issue, that bubbly voice doing nothing to calm me down. If I wasn't able to storm outside the shop and toss tin cans at the bomb, I don't know what I'd do. (On a side note, Cromwell makes a satisfying yelp when you peg him on his bald spot.)

As I sit, legs dangling over the edge of the railing, I hear a voice come from behind me. "Hey, you're new in town, aren't you?" With that voice and that tone, the speaker can only be one of two things... Yep, she's a blonde. And from the look of things, she's quite the ditz too. As a matter of fact, I'm not new in town; I've been living in your basement for years, eating squirrel on a stick and drinking nothing but flat Nuka-cola.

She frowns, obviously not buying it. Maybe not so much of a ditz as she looks, then. She brushes off a speck of dirt, and shakes a letter from her pocket. Catching my raised eyebrow, she chuckles, and says, "It's a letter to my family."

With a bit of prodding, she spills about how she's been sending letters to her family in a town called Arefu. (Really? What kind of name is Arefu? At least Megaton is somewhat linked to the contents of the town: dense, slow-moving, ignorant, and self-destructive.)

"I've been a bit worried," she says, sitting down next to me. "I haven't gotten any replies to my letters."

Okay, hold up. Letter implies mail. Mail implies some sort of postal service. Why haven't I seen this before? Are there ninja postmen sitting around? She squeals as I snag her letter with my hook, nearly catching her hand at the same time.

The way she scratches at me to get it back persuades me that I want to keep this. Lessee, too thin for caps... maybe it's some of that pre-war money I've been finding. Ow!

To get her off my case, I promise that I'll take the letter to her stupid brother. She seems nervous, but agrees.

***

"Raiders in a schoolhouse," I grit, ducking behind cover to reload my SMG. A shot from Mohawk up on the balcony chinks off the wall behind me. The magazine clatters to the ground as I fumble it, cursing. "Why a school?"

With a grunt, I pull my hunting rifle from its sling. A wall serves as a handy mount, and I get off a lucky shot before finishing him off with one round from my SMG.

The three raiders had seen me as I was walking towards the little destination marker in my HUD compass. Running away let them feel secure-- perfect for an ambush when I came back.

I really shouldn't have bothered; they had crap gear.

***

I bloody hate radscorpions. Just saying. They take forever to kill, they can tank walking a frag mine, and they waste my precious ammo. Eventually, I resort to just holding my assault rifle one-handed and spraying from point-blank range.

I drop into a crouch and stare at the radscorpion ahead of me. It doesn't seem to be aware of me, so I pull Lil Macintosh out and take some plinking shots.

"Bang! Bang!"

Holy!... I spin, staring into the gleeful eyes of the pair of raiders behind me. Spraying my SMG wildly at them sends them fleeing. Really, I feel kind of bad about that. their breath stinks of Mentats, jet, and assorted nastiness; it's clear that they're strung out enough that they could be rolled around a spool and used as cable.

But hey, I need ammo. They've got ammo. Problem solved.

The sound of skittering behind me sends me scrambling forward again, dropping frag mines as I go. Yellow ichor splatters against my armor as the second detonates. Oh, ewwww. Scorp-bits in my hair. I'm not normally vain, but I draw the line at having my enemy in my do.

***

"So lemme get this straight. You've been attacked by super mutants. They've taken some of you--defeating the best of an entire town-- and you want me to go fight them off in their stronghold. Is that about right?"

The sniveling man in the patched combat armor nods feebly, quaking behind his barricade as he fixates on the number of weapons I have.

"Yeah. I'm out."

***

"Crap crap crap!" I jump, watching the missile hiss past me, blowing a crater in the road behind me. In the future, if you see one super mutant, and decide to snipe him, make sure that his buddy isn't just hanging around, waiting to blow you up.

The mutant reloads slowly, plopping another missile into the tube. I'm not so quick to dodge the second one, running forward and emptying Lil Macintosh's clip into the mutants chest. It explodes against my chest, sending me flying onto my back; shrapnel pings against my helmet, drawing thing rivulets down my neck where it doesn't cover.

You know, there's something wrong with a world where a boy wearing light armor can take a missile to the chest and keep walking. Okay, limping.

I wish I had a ninja postman bodyguard. Life would be a lot easier.

[Balmas]

Okay. First things first: I'd like to apologize for not posting as often as I had promised. I said that I'd post daily, and here it is, a week since my last post.

There are two explanations for this. The first is simple college life, and homework, and the job that I wish I had, and all those other fancy excuses.

However, the first explanation loses some of its merit, seeing as the second excuse is that in the week I've had it, I've sunk 25 hours into Skyrim. Hobbes the khajit is working on building himself a house, killing as many dragons as possible. (I still love that name.)

Third reason! I finally got Tale of Two Wastelands running, and am enjoying using hardcore mode in DC immensely.

Ferguson will play a bit more tonight, and I'll have it up by noon tomorrow. You have my permission to fling tomatoes at your screen should I not.

[Wookieetank]

Okay. First things first: I'd like to apologize for not posting as often as I had promised. I said that I'd post daily, and here it is, a week since my last post.

There are two explanations for this. The first is simple college life, and homework, and the job that I wish I had, and all those other fancy excuses.

However, the first explanation loses some of its merit, seeing as the second excuse is that in the week I've had it, I've sunk 25 hours into Skyrim. Hobbes the khajit is working on building himself a house, killing as many dragons as possible. (I still love that name.)

Third reason! I finally got Tale of Two Wastelands running, and am enjoying using hardcore mode in DC immensely.

Ferguson will play a bit more tonight, and I'll have it up by noon tomorrow. You have my permission to fling tomatoes at your screen should I not.

Or we could hack into your computer and re-texture Skyrim with FO3's graphics... :smalltongue::smallwink::smallbiggrin: At least we'd get something that looked like FO3 from you.

[Balmas]

On a side note, it's immensely weird to go to Moira's shop and be able to buy .357 revolvers.

[Balmas]

By the time I make Arefu, I'm tired, hungry, and thirsty. Upset is a bit of an understatement. Lucy West can go and deliver the message herself next time; ain't no way Ferguson is ever playing courier again!

Naturally, having a grenade chucked at me doesn't improve my mood. I scramble back down the wooden planks that lead up to the town, desperate to get away before the little metal pinecone goes off.

BAMF!

My ears are still ringing from the blast, but I think I hear an old man shout something. Something about raiders. I cup a hand around my ear, and gasp in pain. That old geezer went and put a hole in my ear!

"Hang on, you're not a raider!" No, though the idea is increasingly tempting. I'd be a better raider, though. You know, one that wouldn't have to put up with old men like you. "Get over here! I nearly blew you half to bits!"

Yeah, the second part of that sentence doesn't really make me want to comply with the first, you know?

It takes longer for me to walk up the ramp to where the old man is waiting behind his sandbag barrier; that's mostly because it's hard to maintain a bead on a guy's head when you have to look through a scope.

(Seriously, why put a scope on a pistol? In order to use it, I have to tuck it against my face, which is just perfect. I've always wanted a recoil-driven black eye.)

The man nervously introduces himself, eyeing the pistol floating near the bridge of his nose. Maybe I should move it towards his ear; that'd be more fitting.

"Ian. Ian West," I spit. "Where is he?"

He babbles some response about how he's been guarding against some sort of Family. (You can practically hear the capitalization in his voice.) They killed his brahmin! Yeah, you know what? That proves that they aren't raiders. If they were, they wouldn't have been stopped by a simple grenade.

Besides, shouldn't you know whether or not a kid's in his house? You're in charge of exactly four ramshackle houses, and you control the only entrance! You live on an overpass, for crying out loud!

One house is simple enough. Knock, go in, talk to broad. Next house is almost as easy. When I knock, a girl asks me if I'm here with her catalog. Yes, I'm here with her catalog. After all, it's only been, what, two hundred years since a store existed? Maybe they come from the same place as the ninja postmen that deliver letters.

Yeah. She's just a coot. Kinda pretty, but nuttier than a squirrel on the first day of spring.

Third house, though... Even before I open the door, I know that something's gone wrong. it sounds much too quiet, and it reeks of decaying meat. Yeah, Mr. King, you're doing a great job of guarding the overpass, if somehow this Family can get to the farthest house on the overpass and kill. And they have, I think. At least, the two dry desiccated bodies inside seem to think so. They're lying on the floor, spread amid piles of tin cans and broken bottles.

Growing up a doctor's son teaches you a bit about people, and how they're put together. I'm pretty sure most people have more neck than that. The male's head flops limply as I search him for valuables... Eeeww...

Damn, but I look snazzy in corduroy. Might have to keep this around. I'll have to wash out the bloodstains, though...

If Evan King notices the change in clothes, he doesn't mention it. (I suspect the array of weaponry may have... encouraged his silence.) He's appropriately shocked by having two dead bodies in his perfectly guarded little town, though.

"It must have been the Family!" No, Sherlock, it was obviously invisible predatory brahmin. And what're you going to do about it?

Oh. Of course. No, actually, I don't have anything better to do than track down this family. Here's an idea: howsabout we wait for their next raid, and kill them that way?

No?

Bollocks.

[Balmas]

Testing... Testing, one two three...

Beep... Beep... I curse, fumbling clumsily to shove the bobby pin into the gap in the mine before in takes my other hand off. It whimpers and dies quietly before being tucked into my bags. One down and... I sigh. From where I stand in the gently dripping tunnel, I can see a bear trap, two more mines, and a tripwire. Whoever was down here didn't want company, and if I was any judge, had a sick and twisted mind.

Seriously. What kind of sick mind does it take to gently tuck a doll into a baby carriage with a trio of mines right next to it?

Water drips slowly off of a wrecked train-car as I ease my way around it, nearly stepping onto a pressure plate. Lessee... No shotguns, no bags of grenades... A wire leads over to a strange, rusted over machine to my left, and the curiosity gets the best of me.

Clank! Thwip, thwip, thwip... No explosions now means that it probably won't in the future, either, so I gently poke my head out around the corner again. The wrecked baby carriage totters on the pressure plate, gently whining as it's barraged by baseball after baseball.

"What a letdown," I sigh. "Shotguns, mines, grenades... and baseballs. Truly, the top of the list of dangerous substances."

Hmm. I grin, gathering up some baseballs and loading them into the hopper again. Home Run needs some practice.

***

"Halt! This area is for the Family only!"

You know what? I'm really tired of people sticking guns in my face, and right now, I can't be bothered to give two craps about your Family. Aren't I supposed to kill you, anyway? "Ian West. Is he here? I got a letter..."

The man grumbles, and threatens me with disembowelment if I do anything stupid, but lets me pass. Good going, guy. If I do something stupid, I'll know that I need to kill you first. In fact, let me just ponder that wonderful thought while I walk.

Whoa. Fantasy canceled, for the moment.

Idly, I just lean against the tunnel wall, taking in the sight of the magnificent train station. Sure, it's got its fair share of rubble and debris, but it seems to have been shoved into three of the four tunnel entrances. And milling inside are... "People. People living in a subway station." Absolutely incredible.

One of them, a lanky female, sidles up to me and--get this--all but drags me to bed. Now, don't get me wrong; I'm all for a roll in the hay once in a while, but usually I prefer to know the girl for more than, say, five seconds. Besides, I'm definitely not your first, and for all I know, you've got crabs. Mutated crabs. You've probably got mirelurks in your knickers. I'm not gonna touch you, much less do you.

Anyway, once I ask around, they point me to this guy standing on the bridge overlooking the whole deal. Vance, he calls himself. Well, Vance, all I wanna do is get in, give the kid this letter, go home, and leave all this letter business to the ninja postmen.

Yeah, I probably deserved that weird stare. Screw you too.

Vance is, of course, one of those people who can't give you what you want unless everything's his way. Look at him; he's so smug there, with his... Waitaminute. Sword, gas-tank, sparker... This guy has a flaming sword. No wonder he's smug; he's got a bloody flaming sword!

I want one. Sorry Home Run, but unless we find you a gallon of kerosene before each fight, I think a flaming sword beats you out.

Where was I? Right, smug bastard. Get this: he teaches his 'children' to drink blood. They used to be cannibals. Instead, now they're vampires! That makes things so much better! I guess that the people being killed are all right with this now; after all, they're much less dead when... no wait, they're still dead.

Anyway, Vance won't tell me where Ian is unless I kowtow to his philosophy of bloody murder, and I'm tired of arguing, so I go and see what's on his computer. Let me list the stupidity:


"Feast not on the flesh; consume only the blood. This is our strength." Because the people are a lot less dead now, aren't they.
"Bear not the child; welcome only the exile. This is our fate." Sooo... you're a family, and you can't have kids. Plus, one of your number is a hooker. What's your plan when she gets pregnant?
"Feed not for pleasure; partake only to nourish. This is our dignity." You're frickin' cannibals. You don't have dignity.
"Seek not the sun's light; embrace only the shadows. This is our refuge." Vance, I'm sorry that you could never get a tan as a child, but that's no need to make other children suffer. Heck, I'm tanner than you, and I grew up in a vault. Plus, it's kind of bright in here. Well done, that.
"Kill not our kindred; slay only the enemy. This is our justice." Gee, you mean that you're not supposed to kill each other? Why, that's the most original philosophy ever! If only it weren't practiced by pretty much every single other town out there!


Yeah.

Anyway, once I parrot back one of his rules to him, he decides I can see the kid. 'Bout time, I think. Just so you know, I'm totally robbing you blind as soon as I find your room.

***

I have to say, Ian is one screwed up mess. Killed his parents, was kidnapped by wannabe vampires, and is currently being brainwashed by the same. At least he's got good taste in accessories.

It's a good thing this hook doesn't detach, or he'd have it off my wrist by now.

"Come on, lemme see!"

"No!"

"Gimme!"

"It's my friggin' hand! I'm not gonna give it to you! Look, kid! Your sister sent me to check on you!" And I'm not entirely sure who's more annoying: you, or her.

Ian perked up, staring at me with wide eyes, before drooping. Yeah, kid, ya screwed up. Ma and pa are gone, and all you've got left's your sister. Then again, if you're a cannibal like the rest of these freaks... Quietly, I tuck the letter deeper into my belt and clap the boy on the shoulder. "Listen, you. You've got a good thing going here. A family, a decent home, a place to sleep... Stay here."

Yes. Stay here. Out of my hair. Now if you excuse me, I have a bedroom to rob.

[Tychris1]

Testing.... Testing... Shoulder Devil 2.0 is now operational....

You know what kid? All this talk of Vampires reminds me of an old tune I used to hear way down here in the pit. Went something like this....
I see the bad moon arising.
I see trouble on the way.
I see earthquakes and lightnin'.
I see bad times today.

Don't go around tonight,
Well, it's bound to take your life,
There's a bad moon on the rise
'Course, considering the dirthole you live in there's a bad moon every night.

Now, on to the important things! Let's think things over, shall we? We want that sword right? Vance doesn't need it, he's just a whiny **** living in a cave, and he doesn't even use the flames for heating meat! It's wasted on him!

BUT!

He has a pretty messed up cult going on here. Like. Seriously messed up. Even for me, wannabe vampires are a big low. If you're going cannibal don't whimp out! Anyway, as I was saying. These loonies buy what he's selling, and one of those things is fighting the enemy. Guess what? We take that sword? We're the enemy! Which means all them crazies are going to swarm over us and try to drain us. So we buckle down, set up some traps or explosives (If you can manage finding some mines in this explosive ridden mess of a land), and get ready for a preemptive strike. Might aswell get the blood bath over with as least danger to yourself as possible. Plus, extra loot! The twerp doesn't. Eed these punks to help him, he can stick it out for his own, and who knows maybe he'll stumble onto megaton or some other less stupid hole then this.

To cut this down into a piece meal package: Grab a gun, hunker down, and get ready.

Cause a bad moon's a'rising.

[Wookieetank]

Its alive! :smallbiggrin: I vote we name our future friend Trogdor :smallwink:

[Ebon_Drake]

I second the motion to gun down every last one of these sad-sack Twilight wannabes and take all their shiny stuff. I also second the motion to name our new toy after one of history's greatest burninators.

[Balmas]

I apologize for the tardiness between posts here. There will be a new entry in the journey of Ferguson the not-a-raider tonight!

[Wookieetank]

I apologize for the tardiness between posts here. There will be a new entry in the journey of Ferguson the not-a-raider tonight!

This message brought to you and sponsered by Soon(tm) :smalltongue:

[Balmas]

Pft. Man, where the hell's the author?


"Dammit!" I pause, turning to check that nobody is going to come running to check on the screaming coming from Vance's room. A pile of broken bobby pins lay at the feet of the wooden cabinet, mocking my efforts to get it open. I like to think of myself as at least a competent locksmith; I could get into and out of all the doors in Vault 101, and I think I have, too! Yet this little cabinet sits before me, smug in its security.

Shooting the damn lock would have everyone on me, too, so I just content myself with stabbing a hole in the door with my knife, before running off to talk to Vance before he gets too suspicious.

"So, what decision has little Ian taken?" he asked, not turning to face me.

"I'm not sure I'm the one who should tell," I hedge, pulling my hand away from his pocket. Dang, but this guy is good.

"There's no need to be worried about my response," he says, misinterpreting the look on my face.

"Ian has chosen to stay here," I mutter, taking a swig of a Nuka Cola. I've got no idea how it stays so cool; even days after I've taken it out of the little fridge I bought from Moira, it's still got little beads of frost dewing on its surface.

Vance smiles, and slides a tin of Cram across the railing to me. "I never would have thought that a surface-dweller could come to understand us as you have."

I scowl at the Cram. I refuse to believe that this stuff is food. Nothing that can be used as ammunition in a food fight and come out looking exactly the same can be truly edible. Still, I can probably sell it. Wasteland's full of stupid, desperate people, after all.

Case in point. "Before I leave, we need to talk about Arefu."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You can't just go about raiding towns at random." You need to use discretion, or soon enough, you'll have a name, a bounty, and a bunch of people after you. Like me.

"What do you suggest?"

Well, that brings me up short. I mean, up to now, I've been on my own. The closest I've got to companionship is a little pistol that someone two-hundred years ago stashed in a safe. It's not that I don't like Li'l Macintosh. It's just that… well, he's a gun. Best damn gun I've ever seen, but still. He's only as good as I am, can only fire as fast as I pull the trigger.

If I play this right, I can have a tribe of devoted idiots at my beck and call. Once we do something about the mirelurks in the entrance-way, this could be a nice fortress. To get in any way but the front, someone'd have to dig up the old subway system. Fill the main tunnel with turrets and robots, and we've got a near impenetrable defense.

Well, obviously not totally impenetrable. After all, I bet these bozos thought their defense was pretty good, and I got in just fine.

Still, the idea of my own base full of armed lackeys is more than a little tempting. Get a chemistry set to start manufacturing Stimpaks, maybe a little garden for food, and I'm in business. Only problem is if we start running out of ammo, and that shouldn't be an issue if we keep our predation to minor communities. At least, at first.

"You see our problem."

Vance's voice breaks me out of my reverie, and I stammer, "N-no! You… Well, you’re invading their town to get their blood, right?" Course I'm right. I'm me, after all. Vance appears to agree with me, too, eyeing the little pouch dangling off my hook.

"Blood packs. I see. I survived a week in a hospital, once, but such bloodpacks are few and far between."

So, right now, you have a village full of ambling bloodbags, and you'd like to have a steady supply of food instead. Yeah, they're superficially similar, but it'll still need a bit of work to convert one to the other. Why bother leaving the fort to hunt when you can have people bring food to you out of fear?

"How about this? You… I know! You have guns, and need blood. They can trade for blood, and you can protect them. Think of it like… Hey, have you ever read about the Family?"

"Um. Yes. You're with us right--."

"No, no! Oh, you need to spend more time with some old holotapes. Citizen Kane, The Godfather… Oh, I need to get you some when I… When I go back to the Vault..."

My gosh. I can't ever watch those again. I can never go back to the Vault. I never though to truly appreciate that, or take notes! Where will I ever find holotapes like those again?

"Never mind," I mumble. There's no point. Not unless I can actually show him the tapes, how it worked. And it's not like he'll survive the coup, either, so there's really no need. "Look, I'll… I'll go ask the geezer in Arefu--"

"Evan King."

"Right, him, about the protection racket. I'll get things set up, and come back when it's safe to tell you."

"I can never thank--"

"Yeah, save it. Leaving now."

***

Perhaps, thinking back, my opening bid for gaining control of a tribe of decently armed cannibals should not have been to stand towards the back of a subway tunnel and try to snipe their leader. Li'l Macintosh booms, sending Holly ducking back behind a subway bench. Karl's laser pistol whines, and it's my turn to take cover. The acrid stink of gunpowder and bullets mingles with the scent of fresh blood.

As a side note, owchies. Lots of them. Really, I think I ought to be somewhat worried that I'm getting so accustomed to the feeling of being shot up, but I'm a little preoccupied right now.

I hiss, scrambling back to the door's alcove. The Med-X stings like hell going in, but brings a welcome rush of numbness to the fire in my shoulder. Maybe there's a bit of alcohol in the needle too, because I'm grinning like a madman when I step around the corner.

BLAM! BLAM! Alan's gun clatters to the ground, wedging between the rails. Alan isn't too far behind. BLAM! Justin drops. I can see my dreams of an empire falling before my eyes faster than Brianna's mirelurk-laced panties.

The stutter of Holly's SMG cuts short as Li'l Macintosh issues a succinct thesis on the reason why attacking me is a bad idea. That only leaves Karl, who, if the beams are any judge, has abandoned any hope of actually hitting me. That wall, though, is deader than a radroach being chased by a super mutant.

Click.. Now, Ferguson! Karl screams, struggling to reload the boxy laser pistol, but VATS sends a bullet straight into one of his eyes.


You know what, **** this. Ian can just starve to death in here. I'm grabbing all the loot I can carry, stripping the bodies, and I'm going to dedicate as many explosives as I can to making sure this hellhole of a sewer never sees human life again.

[Balmas]

What say you, noble readers? I've half a mind to head to the Outcast Outpost and pick up a Chinese Stealth suit, but there's the whole chasing-dad and Wasteland Survival Guide questlines.

[Wookieetank]

What say you, noble readers? I've half a mind to head to the Outcast Outpost and pick up a Chinese Stealth suit, but there's the whole chasing-dad and Wasteland Survival Guide questlines.

Seeing as how dad ditched us without warning, he can go hang in the matrix. Wasteland Survival Guide is disturbingly dangerous, but what doesn't kill us makes us stronger! Much as the Stealth suit would be nice to have, it doesn't seem to fit the character you have going, but that could just be me.

tl;dr
Survival Guide > Stealth suit > Dad.

[Balmas]

Off to Minefield it is, then!

[Triaxx]

Yeah, this is definitely a power armor type of character.

[Thomas Cardew]

I agree, I'd also love to see him do the Tenpenny tower quest. That should be freaking hilarious, what with the rich snobs and the ghouls.

[Balmas]

So, I just figured something out about Ferguson.

He's a jerk.

"So you made this… upstairs, with your chem set." No matter how much Moira grins, it doesn't really reassure me. In fact, it's almost creepy.

"Don’t worry about the gas," she chirps. "It's perfectly safe to breathe!"

"Right." The club she's given me would be innocent enough, if it weren't for the thick coating of green goop on one end. "And this stuff drives molerats away?"

"It just kind of overwhelms their minds with a-- a feel-bad sensation." Yeah. Moira, you really aren't making me feel better with this thing. This is coming from the guy who, if he comes home with fewer than ten bullets lodged in his skin, considers himself lucky.

"You're sure this thing is safe?"

"Oh, don’t be silly," she chides. One day, Moira. One day, when I can figure out how to shoot an assault rifle with a hook hand without it bouncing out of my hands. "It's all organic! Or, at least, it all works on organs, and that's just as good, right?"

No. No, it really isn't.

"Besides, Jericho got some in his food, and he was perfectly all right!" Yeah, Jericho, the ex-raider. I've seen the kind of stuff they eat--two hundred year old macaroni and cheese, potato chips that weren't healthy the day they squirted out of a machine, human flesh--I'd be surprised if a gunpowder and cyanide sandwich did more than give him a cold.

"Now, if you test it on three mole rats, that should be good. But if you want to be thorough, try to test it on at least ten of them! There should be at least than many in the Tepid sewers, just across from the Anchorage memorial!"

And the Pipboy says… Yup, a new little marker east of the Anchorage memorial, maybe a bit to the south. I don't even bother asking how it knows; it's there, and it's where I need to go.

***

Damn. I have to question just how much these Talon mercs are being paid. They're sending larger groups now--four instead of the usual three. At least it's good loot. My armor's all patched up, I'm weighed down with assault rifles and some sort of boxy energy weapon, and I've got plenty of ammo. By all means, keep 'em coming, whoever's sending you. I'll gladly keep taking your things. They make for good cap fodder whenever I wander down towards Rivet City.

Speaking of, that might be a good ide-- Crap. Crap crapity crap. Dammit, I hate mirelurks. I mean, I love their meat, good eatin's right there, but GAH that's my face get awaaay!

***

Okay. New day, new try. The tepid sewers, it turns out, are right outside the DC ruins. Centaurs roam the sidewalk down the street, and I spend a few minutes trying out my new flaming sword on the radroaches skittering near the entrance.

It works out to good practice. Whoever designed the vault must have worked on the sewers first: boxy corridors, rounded corners, and vermin. The two rodents to my right see right through my attempts to hide and rush at me, twin pastel bullets of ugly. "That witch better know what she's doing," I growl, brutally swinging the club against the first molerat's head. It twitches, growls, and leaps up at me again. "I should have known better than to trust that bi-"

Splikt. That's the only word to describe the sound a molerat's head makes when it explodes.

I wish I'd been able to capture the look on my face, but I had a second mole rat to deal with. Two swings, and SPLIKT! Ten seconds, and two dead molerats. How the hell… "Moira, you genius bitch, you." It repelled the things about as well as a bit of garlic repels vampires, but damn it kills them well. These things eat rifle bullets like mad, but a stick kills them like nothing? What the hell?

***

Molerats litter the floor like a fleshy carpet. I'd blame the turret I hacked, except that I'd heard the turret firing before. Hard terminal to crack, too. Reprimand. Kind of an odd password.

Oh. Well, that answers that question, at least. Like how come all the good bits of meat have been stripped out of the molerats. I bend, stripping the armor and assault rifle off the dead raider. And where there's one raider, there's more.

***

Mines. Do you have any idea how hard it is to strip a trigger out of an explosive device when you only have one hand? And from what I can see, this little access tunnel is full of them. Why are there rails in here? Why are the sewers connected to the subway? Who designed this place?

One mine down, only twenty-thre--who is that? I duck back around the corner before the woman spots me. Raider, by the look of her. Only a raider would take a leather bra and say, "You know what? This needs metal spikes on it."

Carefully… easily… Li'l Macintosh booms in the small space, and the raider drops, moronic expression still in place. At least she's still got some good loot--that shotgun doesn't have the scratches, wear and tear that mine's got, and there're a few ammo boxes full of grenades and shotgun shells.

Off to the left, there's a door, and… footsteps. I flatten myself against the wall near the door, hauling my assault rifle out of my back. Yeah, that's a raider. They've got a… well, a particular stench to them. If it merely smelled bad, it might be bearable. Thing is, raider smell doesn't just assault your sense of smell; it ties it down, rapes it, and then holds it for ransom.

Luckily, this raider is also hyped up on psycho. His eyes are more shaky than my dad when he gets into the whisky, and I'm surprised that his shotgun doesn't have fingernail marks from how hard he's clenching it.

His eyes go wide as he turns and sees my black armor under the yellow light, turning to yell. This close, I can't miss, even with a bum hook. The assault rifle blast him against the wall, where he jitters and shudders before dying. His friend runs around the corner and meets the same fate.

Really, there are only so many ways that I can say, "Boolet kill raider." Unless you want me to go into the gory graphic details of squishing eyeballs and failing organs. I could do that, you know. Being a doctor's son has certain benefits, even if they're of somewhat dubious benefits.

***

Splikt. Eight. Love that sound.

Splikt. Nine.

Splikt. Ten. There you go, Moira. That ought to do it. And now I need to go clean molerat brain off my pants.

***

The raider's eyes widen as he steps around the corner, staring at me. Yeah, that's right, my grin says. You're screwed. Then the mine goes off, turning his torso into a bloody paste.

A few grenades take care of his two buddies. Pity that they've only got crap weapons, but I can use that assault rifle's stock. My old one's getting kind of beat up.

A small room full of part's close to the way out. Not much of worth there. A capacitor, a plunger… I tuck the bottlecap mine into my bags, and get on my way.

***

"My way" is a small subway station. I grab a few Nuka-Colas from a downed vending machine, and push open the entrance grate… and right into a squad of more Talon goonies.

Dammit, that's a grenade. I get revenge on the thrower, blasting shotshell into his face, and turn to face his buddies… except that they're not here. Gunshots sound from outside my line of sight--rifles, I think. Not automatics. Loud pops mingle with the chatter of chinese assault rifle as I peek around the low wall of the stairs.

Monsters. Seven feet tall, with scaly yellow skin. They're like a child's vision of a strongman, all muscles and sinew and crudely drawn. Super Mutant, VATS tells me. The little marks in my vision paint it--him?--as a hostile, but right now, it's shooting the mercs. That makes it all right in my book.

Looking around tells me that I'm back near the river. Chunks of rubble lay strewn across the street, where a gutted building stands. One of the mercs runs in, and my pistol guts the other one. A second hunting rifle sounds from within the ruins, and the merc's machine gun chitters to a stop.

Suddenly, that red bar is a lot more meaningful, since I'm the one being shot at.

***

Add mutants to the list of things to hate. They're tough, and that's not just how many bullets it takes to take them down. My 10mm just sparked off their hides, and I couldn't really land any of my shots when I tried with my rifle. Worst of all is that I've started running out of .44 rounds. I need to find a way to mind more of those.

Either that, or learn to shoot rifles.

***

If there's one good thing about Talon mercs, it's that they have good loot. Moira nods, pulling the old, sweaty combat armor over her counter top, and laying out an old silverware tray full of bullets.

"So how did the repellent work? Oooh, I bet it worked like a charm!"

Okay, Ferguson, you've got one chance at this. Play it cool. Nonchalant. I sift through the bullets, aiming for the ones with the least rust on them. "It's like playing explosive whack-a-mole." Pull out a few .308 bullets, pause for dramatic effect. "Can I get it in bullet form? For people?"

Dead silence. I peek up, slipping a few more 10mm rounds out of the tray. Aaaand that's the look I'm going for. Her smile is frozen to her face, her eyes are wide, and she's 'eeee'ing softly between her teeth.

"That's horrible," she breathes. Yes, yes it is. "You're horrible!" You're only just now figuring that out? "Ooo, everything is horrible!"

Breaking a human being's spirit has never been so satisfying.

"Well, with such extensive testing, I guess it's just beyond fixing," she says. My god, are those tears? Moira, you made a stick that blows the head off of molerats. I say that's pretty damn good. "Keep it. And take these chems, too. I don't have any use for them."


I grin, swiping the drugs and bullets into my bags, before bouncing out of the shop. Best. Day. Ever.

Footnote: Level up!
Perk: Strong Back.

Next time, I figure out screenshots!

EDIT: Never mind! Figured out where they were going!

http://i.imgur.com/oSuFViK.png
http://i.imgur.com/2ZDOdhK.png
http://i.imgur.com/9Eua4pE.png
http://i.imgur.com/tgIlEq8.png
http://i.imgur.com/jNrqxcc.png

And unless you lot have a better idea, we're off to deal with some Mirelurks!

[dirtytricks]

Have you considered getting dog meat yet? I think your jerk might be a little less miserable with someone less filthy than jericho...

Great read BTW, keep it up! Looking forward to the next chapter(slaughter).

[Balmas]

Any idea where to find him if he isn't near Scrapyard?

[dirtytricks]

Thought that was his only spawn location... maybe console commands

[Triaxx]

I always find that he's IN the scrapyard, not simply near it. Look near the fallen radio tower at the back.

[Balmas]

Okay! I've done a few hours of gameplay, but I have a problem.

I'm going camping with my family for the next week. As such, I'll be away from my precious laptop and all of you. Be patient, and I'll do my best to get a post out before two weeks have passed.

[Wookieetank]

Have fun camping! Remember, only you can start prevent forest fires. :smallwink:

[Balmas]

Awww... but I like forest fires. They're part of the natural cycle.


=//August 28, 2277 //=

"Good morning, Master!"

Ugh. Light bad. Morning bad. Overly perky, faux-british-accented death-robot? Very bad.

"It appears you've been wounded, sir! May I suggest you seek medical attention?"

"Shut it, Wadsworth." Oh, ow. What the hell did I do to myself last night? My bedsheets are covered in blood, and whiskey bottles clink against my ankles as I sit up.

"Shutting up, sir!" Agh! And add a hangover to boot. I ease upright on my bed, start to stand up...

And then my leg explodes.

***

When I come to, I'm at the bottom of the stairs. More whiskey bottles are here, strewn over and around the small shelving unit. Through the blurs of my vision, I can see a note taped near a small trio of burn marks on the floor.

It'd be easier to read this note if it weren't so shredded and if the writing didn't look like it'd been done by a chicken on Psycho. Still, between the beer stains and the spots of blood, I can make out, "See Moira."

Of course. Because why else would I wake up crippled and drunk?

***

Yesterday
Well, this… this is going to be hard. The note tucked into the merc's shirt pocket says that there's a group here breeding Mirelurks for their meat. This place is just lousy with them. And Moira wants me to shove this stupid doohicky into a pile of eggs, get in and out, without killing any. Yeah, this is dumb.

The Anchorage war memorial doesn't really look like much. I mean… it's impressive, I guess. Three guys brandishing weapons, twenty-foot tall statue. I'm surprised it survived this long; the nukes that hit the city should have done more to it.

http://i.imgur.com/abGsCIe.png

Inside, it's a maze of catwalks and sub chamber. I can't help but wonder why the door was locked when the merc made it in here. Or maybe it was just that he made it all the way through and couldn't get out…

Yeah, that's definitely a cheery thought.

A mirelurk chitters around the corner, beady eyes flashing at the light in my pipboy. And that's my cue to leave! I mean, if I'm not allowed to shoot my way through, I gotta get down another way.

Where at, though?

The front door is probably either heavily guarded or overrun by overgrown shrimp cocktails. Service entrance is not an option, unless I want Li'l Macintosh to get a workout. Where else?

Let's see. If I was a way in, where would I be? Front door, which means there may be a… Bingo! Back door! And it's easy to unlock, too!

It's… well, heaven it ain't.

http://i.imgur.com/bnnESnd.png

Dark, dank, and smelling like mold. Yeah, Mirelurk heaven. The red bars in my EFS agree, too. I hug the wall, dodging the puddles of radioac--OH GOD it's in my armor get it out!

Dammit, I hate spiders. Roaches grow to a foot and a half long, sand crabs are six foot monstrosities, scorpions are big enough to eat your leg, and spiders are still just the right size to slip into your clothes.

And it turns out that squealing like a little girl isn't the best way to avoid notice. I'm lucky that Mirelurks don’t turn very well, or I wouldn't be able to dodge past them… straight into a dead end. Well, screw me sideways.

I turn, pulling my pistol from its holster, before tripping over something. Small, white… An egg cluster! Yes! Hopefully, Moira doesn't need any precision data, because I'm just shoving this in here.

Aren't I forgetting something? Right, mirelurks. Scuse me, pardon me, coming through! Hah! Dod--OOF! Lucky swing there. Sorry, but I'm not sticking around to box with a six-foot crab salad.

***

God dammit all. I hate this town, hate the people, hate my life, hate everything. Hey, you! Yeah, you, Mrs. "I can't thank you enough, take my useless junk" over there! Need a hand, a crutch, something! See this white thing? That's bone right there! Broken leg, blood, sticking right out there! You wanna help? No?

Yeah, **** you too.

It shouldn't take this long to get to Moira's. Oh, right. Crawling tends to slow you down.

***

"So, are they intelligent? Do they have a leader? Some sort of king? Or priests? Or some sort of scaly community center?"

Um, Moira? I think you need to back up. Your enthusiasm is getting into my sarcasm, and it's making a mess. "Why do you even want this? They attack me no matter what."

She hems a bit, but eventually shrugs. "Okay, yes. They're jerks. But if they're intelligent, we can get them to stop. And train them! Maybe we could even ride them! That'd be fun!"

Ugh. "Well, I did it. It's in there. No mirelurks were hurt in the making of this film."

She positively beams. "I bet most people would have just gone in there, guns blazing, without half a thought. But not you!" No. I'm stupid like that. "You're the best research assistant ever!"

I have never hated myself more than I do right now.

"They appear to be descended from local crabs," I commented. "I'll call them Scylla Serrata Horrendus."

"That's very scientific of you!" Yes. Because this is actually Latin, and not gibberish that I pulled out of my butt. Yeah, that's it. "Anyway, I want you to have this. And keep these, too, so you can keep avoiding the mirelurks!"

A hat. A friggin' hat is my reward? I risked my life to get you this data, and you give me… a hat. Moira, every time I think I can't hate you more, you manage to surprise me. The other thing looks interesting, though, like someone took a dish and pasted it to a radio dial. "What do I do with this?"

Moira hums softly, pulling another from under the counter. "Lemme see your pipboy…" The little tele-dish thingy slots into the edge of my pipboy, dangling out over my hook. The manic storetender grins, before pressing a button in the disk. "There we… go?"

"Is this supposed to do anything?"

"The charge must have gone dead," pouts Moira. "Just… Trust me. They'll help you sneak past things." Yeah. Trust. Good joke.

Anyway. "What else is on the list for the second chapter?"

"Well, I never get to study anyone who's severely injured. Not without them crying to be fixed right away or trying to bleed out and all that. But obviously, you can handle a lot of abuse, so if I'm ever going to find a good example of human anatomy and injury resistance, it'd be you."

Moira, you better not be going where I think you're going with this.

"I mean, you're going to get yourself hurt anyway, right?"

Damn. Moira, I didn't want to kill you right away, but I think you're forcing my hand. "How about I just shoot you in the gut, and I'll record what I see?"

"Well, I could hardly be an impartial observer in that, now could I? It would ruin the validity of the study!"

Maybe so, Moira, but it would be much more satisfying for me. I think I'm a better doctor than you are anyway. "What's in it for me, anyway?"

"Did you know, when bones break and reheal, they grow back tougher? In a way, you'd be repaying yourself. Once I make sure you survive, of course."

Oh, I'm going to hate myself for this.

***

I pause, hauling myself up by the door to Craterside Supply. Wait a minute… Whiskey, scorch marks… And I was short three mines in my packs.

God dammit.

Vaguely, the memories filtered back. Wadsworth warning that standing on mines is not good for my health. Me dancing about, a bottle of liquid courage in each hand. Chugging a bottle of fire, shouting, "Ka-BEWM!"… and shooting the mines under my feet.

The door collapses, and one of megaton's many useless people steps over me, nose crinkling at the sight of me. Moira bends over the counter, smiling brightly. "And how's my favorite research assistant?"

"Too hurt… to be snide."

"Oh, I know it hurts, dear, but it's for a good cause! Now, how would you describe the pain you're feeling? Any advice for how to keep it from being overwhelming? And remember, this is posterity."

"My only solace is thinking about inflicting this pain on people like you."

"Awww, you don't mean that… Right?" Aww, she's feeling insecure. How nice of her. "Just… hold still, okay? Could you turn around, please?"

"Yeah, su"-- *CLONK*

***

Ow. Ow, god dammit. My legs feel better, but my head is killing me. Here's a free tip, Moira. "Anesthetic" is not spelled, "P-O-L-I-C-E-B-A-T-O-N."

"Okay. I even stitched a little smiley-face in you, to keep up your spirits. It's kind of hard to see from your side, though." Moira, I'm going to kill you. Not now. It'll be when you don't expect it, and it will be slow. "Now, here's a little something, to make sure you don't get hurt in the future!" Bullets. Not many, and the cheap kind, but bullets are good.

"And that finishes up the second chapter! Are you ready to keep going?"

Yeah, no. I think I need to go find that smiley face and pick out the stitches. And maybe find more vodka.

[Balmas]

Also, just so's y'all know, I've installed Fallout Wanderer's Edition, which is a comprehensive rework of how Fallout 3 works.

In essence, it's hardcore mode for Fallout 3. Food, water, and sleep become much more important. Stimpaks work over time. In order to heal crippled limbs, you need to find a safe spot and bust out a medical brace. Rad-X and Radaway have a possibility of becoming addictive. Ammo is much rarer. Fast Travel is done via motorcycle, so if you want to go from one side of the map to the other and back again, you'd best pack some fuel and maybe some spare parts. Bullets do a crap-ton of damage; I believe that everything has been restatted to do double stock damage, and headshots do double that damage.

I find that I rather enjoy this playstyle. It also lends a bit of realism to Ferguson's quest to find loot. As such, I intend to keep playing with it until the end of the LP.

I should have another post out by the end of the week.

[Balmas]

As promised, another update! It's short, but two in a week is a good thing, I think.

"This motorcycle had better be worth it." The old junker I'd found outside Megaton wasn't much to look at: wide, flat tires, and a low, rusting body. The seat was hard, the handlebars bare, and the suspension non-existant. The only concession to comfort that I could see was that someone, long ago, had strapped fenders to it, scrawling "Wasteland Explorer" across the back.

A note in one of the saddlebags led me to the vendor's factory south of megaton. The prices he quoted for the ingredients in his homemade motorcycle brew led me right back out the cracked glass door and up north. I might make a comment about how gunny it is that I find detergent all over the place--unless I'm actually looking for it, in which case it decides to bugger off everywhere. I might, except it's not funny; it's a bloody pain in my ass. Now there were three more things that I need to keep an eye out for when I'm busy pillaging bodies or looking through lockers.

Junker was the right term for the bike: no fuel, and falling apart at the seams. First batch of fuel I poured into the tank just dribbled out and got my pants dirty. (Well, dirtier.) I'd cobbled together a replacement from the parts I'd stored away, but there was a lot of work to do.

It was early afternoon by the time that I made my way north. A group of raiders hiding under a bridge were probably just as surprised to see me as I was to find them there, so that slowed me down a bit. Their guns would slow me down a bit, but at least that was a bit of insurance; if I couldn't find the parts I needed, maybe I could trade Moira for them.

Fifteen minutes passed, then an hour as I worked. Sweat poured down my forehead as I worked to loosen the leather off an old, half-rusted over car. I'd read about seasons, weather, and all that good stuff back in the Vault. Somehow, the writers in the little niche library had avoided mentioning that hot weather and thick metal plating do not mix well.

With a rip, the dry leather peeled off of the seat, a few cracks spiderwebbing out from the edge. A storm of yellow cotton padding spilled out, and I began picking the parts with the least insects to go in my bag. And that's when the shooting started.

The chatter of assault rifles argued with the draconic roar of a minigun. "Fresh meat!" screamed a scratchy girl's voice, and a man cackled gleefully. I cussed, standing up straight. Pro-tip: standing up straight while you're bent over a car bench can have painful consequences if you forget to take into account the 200-year old car's roof. Right. Forget the knife, I want a gun. Take too long to grab it anyway.

Wait… Something was wrong. (I mean, what a surprise in the capital wasteland, right?) I could still hear the thunder of guns, and the people were still screaming, but now they were screams of panic and agony. Now and there, I heard a whimper, but the loudest sound was a bass bark, growling louder than the guns.

People who've never shot a gun sometimes underestimate how loud they are. They use terms like crack, thunder, boom, or roar. Guns don't do that. They'll make you think that someone bottled an old god's lightning, and that you're a fool for thinking that you can control it.

One by one, the guns fell silent, and I swear that the sudden calm was louder than any gun.

Whatever was out there had killed an entire group of people with guns. Granted, I did the same thing most days, but that just meant that this thing was probably just as dangerous as I was, maybe more. My chest felt suddenly tight, and I realized that I'd been holding my breath. Letting it out, I eased around a beaten green car, and came face to face with a wolf.

That was the only word for it: It was huge. Its shoulder came up to my waist. Its salt-and-pepper coat managed to look luxurious even while spattered with gore. "Gah!" I scrambled to pull Mac out of its holster, but it caught on the leather strap holding it in. I swore, and waited for the feeling of wolf teeth.

It didn't come. I opened my eyes again, peeking at the wolf. It had sat down, and was now staring at me, a curious look on its cocked head. The tension left me, but I managed to free Li'l Macintosh. "Do you know, you're the first dog that hasn't tried to eat me?" The wolf barked, and I flinched as it lunged for my hand… and began to lick it. "That wasn't a request," I grumped.

Scrapyard was a mess. Raider bits hung off and out of cars, usually in more than one pieces. I collected the weapons, tucking pistol and rifles alike into my bags. As I snapped a handbreak off a motorcycle and packed it away, I heard heavy steps, and felt a fuzzy mass brush against my leg.

"What do you want?"

The wolf-dog looked away, tail tucked between its legs.

"Yeah, I get it. You like me, and since you're not trying to kill me, I like you too." Whine. Bark. "Yes, you're a dog…ish thing. I'm a man. They go together well, but I can't afford to feed you. Hell, I can barely keep myself fed." Whimper. Tail-tuck. "I get shot a lot. You'll get shot too." Dear Moira, but was I really talking to a dog about this? "Smart move would be to get away." Cautious panting. "Well, alright. Come on, then."


And so, I got a pet. Not a bad day at all.


And now, dear readers, I need guidance! We've come to chapter three of the Wasteland Survival Guide questline. That means we have three options to chase: Robots, Towns, or Libraries!

What do?

[Wookieetank]

And now, dear readers, I need guidance! We've come to chapter three of the Wasteland Survival Guide questline. That means we have three options to chase: Robots, Towns, or Libraries!

What do?

Ferguson cares not for dusty rectangles full of mustiness and mold. Robots sound like bad news and/or more trouble than they're worth. With his current search for items and supplies, Towns sounds like the way to go.

[Balmas]

This chapter was more emotional than I thought it would be.

I don’t think I'd ever been as tired as I was at the moment I parked the Explorer in front of Megaton, hauled a dozen assault rifles out of the saddlebags, and limped to my house. My head swam, the concussion making it hard to focus on anything but finding a safe spot to sleep. Every step was torture, my knee bending backward every time I moved.

I'd gotten most of the mines away from the little Pulowski preservation booth, but as I pushed a bit of rock into the coin slot, I heard a beeping from beneath my feet. Even the three bits of preserved, fresh water inside couldn't cheer me up. I remember screaming, batting away Dogmeat's attempts to lick the wound clean. Retracing my steps through the sewer was a much slower process than going through it the first time. More painful, too. And of course, the instant I got out of the sunken metro station, a super mutant with some kind of sniper-rifle-machine-gun decided to show up. I scrambled, fumbling with my drugs, anything to get the morphine flowing through my system and the stimpaks working. It's a good thing that muties are stupid; obviously, the dog chasing at it was the bigger threat than the man with the machine gun.

But, it was past. I didn't even bother pulling off the uncomfortable, constricting power helmet before flopping onto the mattress, dead asleep.

***

The pain woke me up in the late afternoon, and I hauled myself to the small closet where I kept my medical supplies. It took a while, but I managed to patch myself up to the level where I could function.

Now, wasn't this an interesting gun? I slid various calibers into the holes, until settling on 5.56 bullets. And it had a scope, to boot! I slid the little jury-rigged loop of wire on my hook-hand around the barrel, and cinched it tight. It was an ugly little gun; it made no pretenses of prettiness. It was a gun. It was built to kill, and anything that wouldn’t help that was ground down and sandblasted off so it wouldn't get in the way.

"This is a good gun," I told Dogmeat, slipping off the loop. Simple meant efficient, and that meant I didn't have to spend as many caps buying ammo. I chucked it into my sling, and set out to go talk to the bane of my existence.

***

My battered Outcast power armor clinked softly as I pulled off my helmet. "Right. What new form of torment have you devised for me?"

"The last chapter's a bit more esoteric. It's about the survival of humanity as a whole, and how to rebuild society. Deep stuff, huh?" No, deep stuff is something like a cliff, or scuba diving. "We need to know how large settlements are formed, how to harness the old technology, and I'll need you to get ancient history from a nearby library."

Huh? "Moira, I think you've missed something. None of these things sound like they'll wind up with me being shot full of holes!"

She had the gall to laugh. "Don’t be so sure."

Well, aren't you a little ray of sunshine. Let's see… Libraries, robots and towns, oh my. "Large settlements seem like there'd be less bullets aimed at me. Let's do that first."

Moira nodded, pulling out a tray of bullets so I could bargain as we talked. "in this case, I'm talking about Rivet City. It's the most successful survivor settlement around, but no one here really knows how it started." Let's see, the .308s were good, but I could never find parts to repair my rifle. "Of course, that's why it's important to kno whow a place like that succeeded. So I need you to go there and do some researching!"

I looked up from my examination of a medical brace. "What's in it for me?"

"You mean, apart from making sure we don't repeat our tragic failures in a never-ending cavalcade of human pathos and suffering?" Whoa. Moira, when did you learn about polysyllabic expression? Have you been holding out on me? "Let's saaay… a big pile of Mentats. I just got a shipment of those in recently. Do a good job ,and maybe the people of Rivet City will reward you, too!"

Well, it wasn't bullets, but I supposed I could get rid of the mentats at Moira's shop once I was done. She usually had a good selection of junk. "Yeah, alright."

"Oooh, now I can't wait for what you find out down there! And check around o make sure you’re hearing the real deal!"

***

Rivet City was a lot more depressing by night than it is by day. The market was shut down, and all the cleaning crew came out.

The bums did, too.

"Who're you you? Got any psycho? I could really use a fix, but I'm broke! Hah! I run the chem shop, but I'm broke and can't buy chems!"

Paulie Cantelli was, in a word, strung out. His eyes twitched, and if his T-shirt tan is any judge, he spent most of his time on deck, away from the store. And, as his next comment showed, he was also utterly useless.

http://i.imgur.com/vKLtaUe.png

I was able to track down some of the cleaning crew. They had to know something about how the dumb place started, right?

http://i.imgur.com/57Ft1Lg.png Yeah. Christie, you're useless too. And your cleaning skills suck.

"Maybe if you ask Bannon. He's been simply wonderful on the council, so I'm sure he'd be glad to help with your question."

Maybe you're not useless after all. Bannon, huh? Wasn't he that pretentious jerk with the clothing shop?

I wandered the hall until I found a couch to sit on. Ten PM. I'd have to wait around a while if I wanted to talk to Bannon. Who else might know? City council members… Lessee, I think those were supposed to be Bannon, Harkness, and Doctor Li. Would they be up this time of night?

***

Doctor Li worked nights, it would seem. I'd stopped in the laboratory once before, but only in passing. I snagged an apple from a table, and munched it as I walked towards the woman in the labcoat.

She turned as I approached, eyes widening and clipboard dropping out of her hands. "My god… You're James' son, aren't you? What are you doing here?"

What. The ****. No really, what? "Who the hell are you? How do you know my dad?"

"You were way too young to remember, and I suppose James never spoke of me. Typical." Remember what? Who are you? How do you know my dad?

"When your mother died, your father decided to leave with you. He abandoned our work. We had no choice but to do the same."

A cold chill was seeping up my spine. I'd been born in a Vault. Until Dad opened the Vault, no one ever entered, and no one ever left. Right? "How do you know my dad?"

"It all seems like a lifetime ago, and I'm afraid I've had a lot of things on my mind since those early days. I worked with them for several years until…" She paused, looking away. "Until your mother died, and your father decided it was time to leave."

I felt numb, transfixed, as the lightning of revelation fried my brain. She… She knew my mom. "Can you… Please tell me about her."

"Your mother was… well, she was a good woman. A very dedicated scientist. Your father loved her very much." Which would explain his addition to morphine, and the constant petitions for greater whiskey allowances from the Overseer. My gosh, my life was a lie. "It was a shame that she died. She had been excited to meet you."

So many lies… Dad, were you ever going to tell me? Ever say to me what happened? "How did she die?"

"Complications from childbirth. None of us were expecting it. We weren't as prepared as we could have been."

"Complications?" I stared at the woman in disbelief. If I'd taken a step, I think I'd have tripped on my jaw. "My mom is dead!

"You have to understand. We were struggling with scavenged, derelict equipment. We did everything we could!" For the first time, she seems to be aware that she's talking to a man in power armor, with a nice, deadly grey assault rifle. "As I said, I am sorry. I'm afraid I can't go back and change the past."

I cleared a spot on the table, potatoes and hot plates tumbling to the ground. "My god… It's so much to take in."

Doctor Li sat down next to me and put an arm around me. That arm was my lifeline; I leaned into it as if I'd fly off without it. "What do you want to know?"

Everything. Nothing. My head was pounding. I felt so incredibly small, even in a bulky metal shell. I'd never really known my Mom before; now twenty years of loss was hitting me all at once. "Can you tell me about my dad? What was he like before… well, before?"

"James?" She stares across the room, seeming to lose herself in the past. "He was very driven. Determined to change the world. Well, we all were back then, I suppose." I look up, staring at her quiet smile. How could she smile about this? "He was focused on two things, really. Making Project Purity work, and your mother. When she died, I think…" The smile fades. "I think he gave up. I know he wanted to keep you safe, but I think part of what he did was run away."

Project Purity… The name seemed to be familiar. "What was Project Purity supposed to do?"

"It was simple, really. 'Fresh, clean water for everyone.' Such a simple idea, and yet so impossible to realize. The plan was to build a facility that could purify all the water in the Tidal Basin at once. No radiation, no muck, just clear water."

I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely. The old scripture on the wall of Dad's medical clinic suddenly made a lot more sense. Clean water would make it possible to grow crops that weren't tinged with radiation. It would make it possible for communities to spring up. Rebuilding would be possible.

Doctor Li continued, "It just turned out to be more difficult than we anticipated. We had the basic principles down; we understood most of the science behind it. But the radiation in the area is so pervasive… Small scale tests were fine, but any time we tried to test the process on a larger scale, it was just too much."

"So what happened to it?" My curiosity was becoming unbearable.

"You happened." The words felt like a slap to the face. Doctor Li seemed to notice my discomfort, and was quick to note, "It wasn’t just you; we had more problems than we could handle already, but your birth is what finally pushed it over the edge. Your father decided that you were more important than everything we'd been working for, and he left. He left all of us." The good doctor couldn't keep the resigned bitterness from leaking into her voice. "Once he was gone, the Brotherhood decided we weren't worth their time anymore. Without their protection, we had to abandon the purifier."

I just didn't know what to think, and the way my emotions were jumping around wasn't helping. Dad… gave all this up, this world changing project, to protect me. To keep me safe. The itching scars from where the stimpaks hadn't been quite enough suddenly felt that much worse. He'd told me to keep safe, and even if the overseer made it so I couldn't, he'd been acting with my best affairs in mind. "Do you know where Dad is?"

"You won't find him here. He's come and gone already. The last I knew, he was going back to the old lab. It's in the old Jefferson Memorial building, northwest of here." She must have seen the look that came over my face. "Please, don’t go after him. It was foolish of him to even think about going there alone."

Wait, what? "Why?"

"Super Mutants. Lots of them."

"I can handle super mutants."

She reaches out and hugs me again. "Don't go there. They'll kill you faster than you can blink. Your dad wouldn't want that."

Oh, now that was dirty pool. Effective, too. I grumbled an agreement, and stood up to leave. She grabbed my wrist, nimbly dodging the hook, and forced me to look at her eyes. "Really. Don't."

I nodded, and turned to head towards the stairs, when I heard a whine from a man in the corner. "You! You don't look like a scientist!"

Doctor Li rolled her eyes, and turned to inspect a set of test tubes, leaving me free to sidle up to the man. In all honesty, he reminded me of nothing so much as a weasel or a rat. "Who're you?"

"Are you by any chance… for hire?"

"Depends on the job, I suppose."

"I've misplaced some very sensitive property."

"What kind of property?"

The man pauses, seeming to consider. Already, I'm coming to hate that smug face. "Hmmm… how do I put this in a way you'll understand?" Yup. Definite hatred going on. "All you know of robots are those buckets of bolts. Those Mr. Handshakers and whatnot. Well, that's not all a robot can be. You see, in the Commonwealth, we've made artificial persons. Synthetic humanoids! Programmed to think and feel and do whatever we need. And occasionally, they get… confused, and wander off."

"What's it got to do with me?"

"You are to find this missing android. I've tracked him to somewhere here in the Capital Wasteland. He must have done something drastic, like facial surgery and a mind wipe, or else I would have found him by now. It will be no easy task. He may not even realize he's an android. Don’t upset him by talking with him. Just come get me immediately. I'll handle it."

"Difficult jobs require good pay." I wasn't sure I wanted to work for this sleazebag. Depending on what he had to offer…

"Of course! I have at my disposal advanced technology from the Commonwealth. Just think, yo--"

"Sooo… I said, considering. "You have the ability to make synthetic humanoids?"

"Yes!"

"How are you with prosthetics?"

He looked at me, and then at my hook-hand. The grin he came up with can only be described as predatory.

[Triaxx]

That was pretty awesome. Since you've got FWE now, keep an eye out for an uzi. Those things are awesome close in. Beats most shotguns.

[Forum Explorer]

This is cool. And since we have a shoulder devil I'll have to play the shoulder angel.

[Tychris1]

This is cool. And since we have a shoulder devil I'll have to play the shoulder angel.

Yeah, I really need to get back to my shoulder devil-ness. Just need to get back into the groove.

[Balmas]

It's good to have more instructions! :smallbiggrin:

I'll finish up this quest line's chapter by tomorrow, so make sure to work up your best devil-angel impressions!

[Wild Zubat]

Go through town and raid every fridge! Pick up useless items and drop them off of Tenpenny Tower! The next time you kill an animal, use Home Run to tenderize the meat! For hours!

Yes, I am going to be the Shoulder Slaad.

[Balmas]

You know how I said I'd have the update up on Friday?

In case you hadn't noticed, I lied. Life gets in the way like that sometimes. I've got half a chapter done, just a couple paragraphs short of 1500 words. With luck, I'll be able to bang it out during my lunch break and after I get home from work tonight.

In other news, I have a question for y'all: Which would you rather read? One long chapter per week, or a series of smaller posts coming closer to every two-to-three days?

[Tychris1]

I guess 1 long chapter per week.

[dirtytricks]

I guess 1 long chapter per week.

Seconded. More time gives a better product. Keep up the great work!

[Wookieetank]

In other news, I have a question for y'all: Which would you rather read? One long chapter per week, or a series of smaller posts coming closer to every two-to-three days?

Yes! :smallbiggrin: On a more serious note:


Seconded. More time gives a better product. Keep up the great work!
Thirded.

[Balmas]

At 5,404 words, this is the longest chapter yet. Here's to bigger and better things!

BLAM!

I let out a soft breath as the ugly raider slumped over the counter of the little metro station ticket booth. None of his friends seemed to have noticed the shot--probably drunk or chemmed up. That was just fine with me. I'd need somewhere safe to patch myself up before I went any further.

I sat against a downed Nuka-Cola machine, letting the crisp feel of Stimpak nanobots wash over my shoulder. Those Talon mercs were getting trickier. I swear, they weren't there when I went towards the little subway entrance. My first hint that something was worse than usual was when Dogmeat yelped, and my EFS suddenly lit up with red. The captain had a better version of my own sniper assault rifle. Had is the key word there.

This was almost unfair, really. The next raider staggered back, knocking down a sheet metal wall, and I quickly snapped the rifle's sights towards the third raider. She growled, but before she could get any shots off with her massive pistol, my rifle turned her head to a mushy paste.

Sorry, Li'l Mac. In a fight of revolver vs. assault rifle, the assault rifle wins.

The raiders really didn't have much: a few ammo boxes full of small-caliber ammo, a table full of jet and buffout, and a Nuka dispenser. Li'l Mac rang out, and a raider in heavy armor jerked over his sandbag shield. I made my way through the station, killing raiders as I went.

One of them dropped a fantastic little toy. It fit right in the gap between my hand and my elbow, like it had been measured for me. Course, no scope. That was a minus. Still… Brrrratatataa The chewing whine it made as it mowed down raiders was a definite plus.

Two new guns, and both of them fantastic. Nothing could possibly get me down.

***

Do you ever feel like the universe exists purely because some sick, sadistic being finds enjoyment in your suffering? I hopped out of the other end, whistling a jaunty tune from that Enclave station, slid the grate shut behind me, turned, and saw the five super mutants grinning at me.

"I don't suppose you gentlemen would mind horribly letting me alone?"

My gosh. I think I could see the bits of yesterday's human stuck in those teeth as the grins got bigger. The biggest one thumped a nail board meaningfully against his scaly thighs, and chuckled. It was rather like hearing someone gargle with a jar full of marbles.

"Yeah, I didn't think so." I sighed, and then did my best impression of a rabbit running from a pack of wolves.

Almost made it through the grate before they started shooting, too.

I gasped as I ran, an angry storm of lead shooting past, around, and more often than not, through my body, stinging like hot metal wasps, if wasps went a couple hundred miles per hour in a straight line. Morphine? Yes, please! Stimpaks? Jab 'em in wherever there isn't armor! I screamed as a burst of automatic fire shredded a hole through my armor and burrowed into my shoulder. I wasn't usually one to take drugs, but right now, I needed anything, everything I could muster to survive.

And what a crock the drugs were! I hurled an empty syringe of Psycho around the corner, doing my best to keep chips of shattering tile out of my eyes as the bullets slammed around me. "Grenade!" The footsteps receded, giving me a chance to shove a second stimpak into the suit's dispensing system.

Man, when I got back to Rivet City, I was going to take all the drugs I'd been saving up, and see how quickly I could choke Cindi with them. No, forget that plan! I was going to steal her entire stock, and then choke her with them! In fact, forget everything!

The world dropped into a wonderful clearness, and I saw red. My dad had run out on me. I worked for the queen moron so she could tell other people to be a moron like her. In the--my gosh, was it really only two weeks since I left that hellhole? In two weeks, I'd gone from bored janitor to a murderous hobo, killing and looting even more murderous hoboes to stay alive and in a good supply of caps. Now, I'd finally caught my first lead to where my only family had gone, and these things thought they were going to get in my way, going to make me scream, make me cry, give me pain? Well, screw that noise, and screw you too! I've had it up to here with punks with machine guns, with power-armored goons telling me to get out of here because I'd ruin their abandoned bunker, with traders charging a leg for a clip of bullets and a first-born child for something to put them in, with all the daily death I was forced to look at and ignore and pretend that it didn't bother me, with everything! With all the little nicks and tears, the little blows, the death-by-a-thousand papercuts that was life in the wasteland! With hoarding bullets, stimpaks, and useless Chinese pistols because someday I might need them! With everything wrong with my life, and most of all, with the squad of super mutants rounding the corner.

A bellow of anger ripped its way out of me as I stepped back around the corner, gun trembling in my grip. One of the muties hesitated. Damn straight! You better run! Ferguson is here, he's pissed, and he's done running!

I staggered as a wave of bullets slammed into me. VATS sent a burst of bullets into the leading mutant's head, then jerked my arms over to the second one's chest. Mr. Chatter lived up to its namesake, carving a swath of blood and pain through the muties.

The last mutant crawled back, scrambling away from me. I could see the fear in his eyes, the will to live. Idly, I wiped the blood off of Mr. Chatter, and pulled Little Macintosh out of his holster. Disgusting. This thing was eight feet tall, had a gun, and he was running away. BLAM! One shot to the kneecap solved that little problem. "Do you know," I said softly, contemplating the writhing mass, "I don't even know what you are." BLAM! The mutant screamed, clutching its arm. Contempt filled me. "We're going to do some experiments, okay?" If it had taken the chance, it could have been something great. These things, if they'd just spread out, could take over the wasteland. Now he was being terrorized by a teenager with a pistol. "Do you have tear ducts? Do you… cry?" BLAM! BLAM! One to the gut, one to the shoulder, right where I'd felt the bullets eat into my flesh. The mutant trembled, staring into the looming depths of the heavy revolver's barrel. I grinned, watching him in the center of my twitchy-eyed vision.

"Cry for me."

BLAM!

***

"Yeah, that's right! You watch that river!" The security guard did her best to ignore me. I grinned, standing right in front of her for a few minutes, before heading in to market. It had been a good haul, all told. A new carbine, a few hunting rifles, and lots of ammunition that I couldn't figure out.

"Flak! Bring 'em out, show the goods!" I grinned, tossing the lot on his table. Forget the big bullets. I didn't have the guns for them, and Mr. Chatter was hungry. He frowned, pulling out a toolbox full of bullets. "Whassamatter, Flak? I got caps! No need to be nervous, I'll be good! Oh, come on, you know me!"

"Yes. That's the problem."

I didn't like the way he was looking at me. Dirty little vendor trash. I could take him! I could do whatever I wanted, and Harkness, or any other security chief, couldn't do anything to hurt--

And then both the morphine and the Psycho decided to cut out at the exact same moment.

Flak leaned over the edge of his counter. "If ye don't mind, could you die a bit further from my stand? Shrapnel hates it when I leave him a mess."

***

Stairs. Why was it that whenever my blood and guts were making a break for the great outdoors, I could never find a place with an elevator? Anything but stairs.

Let me tell you, Rivet City security is abysmal. Guy wanders by, staggering against the wall because he'll fall over otherwise, and not a word of help. At least the doctor was a decent chap, name of Preston. As he set the bone, I figured I might as well follow up on things for Moira and Zimmer. He didn't know much about the history, but he managed to turn up a holotape for me, something about a microdermal-abrasiwhatsit. Some kind of doctor. Paired with the Holotape that Moira'd given me, it suggested that someone had done surgery on the android--

Robot. It's not an android, it's a robot. Robots don't have feelings, or rights, or anything like that. They were machines. I just had to keep telling myself that.

I bought a few spare medical braces from the doctor, and sank into a couch in the hallway. Self-determination is not a malfunction! The words from the an--robot's holotape echoed in my mind. He may not even know that he's an android, came the memory of the little android sympathizer woman. What had she called it? The Railroad?

On the one hand, freedom, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for a stranger. On the other hand… I glared at my hook and chuckled. "On the other hand, we have the other hand."

I scrolled through my Pipboy once more, listening to each holotape in turn. Maybe there was a way to get both rewards?

***

"'Fraid I can't help you, pal. Been here for years, but all I know about the history is that it's a safe place to settle down."

I sighed, turning away from Flak's store. Maybe three more people, and I'd just give up on Moira's little obsession. Maybe I could set up shop here, be a junk vendor. Maybe I'd be able to figure out how these guys never seemed to run out of caps, ammo, or chems without showing any signs of scavenging at all.

Three more. I crossed the little bay, to where a well-dressed man was standing. He nodded at me, noting the bloodstains, bullet hole, and the several layers of Wasteland accumulating on my face. I had to give him credit; he concealed his disgust well. "Welcome to Potomac attire! I sell things to only the most discriminating of customers."

Oh. Well, nice to meet you too. "So, not me, then?"

He had the good grace to look embarassed. "Oh! No! Er, well, what I mean is that… Well, I only sell the highest quality merchandise. Which you want, I assume."

I smirked, picking through his stuff. I'll admit that he had good stuff, in that none of it had obvious bullet holes in it. Wouldn't stop one, either. "So… do you know anything about the history of Rivet City?"

Hooboy. That grin. I remembered seeing that kind of grin before, right before Butch's thugs cornered me in the maintenance wing of the Vault. Bannon had an audience, and he wasn’t gonna let go until he'd had his fun.

http://i.imgur.com/sXbMAaj.png

Right. Strongest settlement in the waste. Rivet city was a pile of rusting sheets; a good cough would send it to the bottom of the ocean.

"Of course," Bannon continued, "a few of those dead-enders still stick around, but who'd want to leave?"

Anyone with a sense of self-preservation? Wait a minute… those numbers didn't add up. Bannon only looked like he was… what, thirty-something years old? I was nineteen, and according to Doctor Li, she'd been here before I was born. "Hasn't Rivet City been around for more than twelve years?"

His glare could have taken the paint off a car. "That's just a technicality, really. This wasn't what you'd call a 'settlement' until I whipped them all into shape. More of a camp, really." So you, seven years after I born, created the city I was born in. Or near, anyway. "I suppose if you really care about what they have to say, you could grill some of the Hanger Deck rabble. Don't expect a speck of truth from them. Especially not that bartending crone, Belle Bonny. She tells the most disgusting lies."

Silently, I made a note to go straight downstairs and check it out. "So you helped set it up, and then they made you their leader."

"Precisely! After sponsoring the settlement and organizing the city council, I took my rightful place at its head!"

I pity any settlement that accepts you as their leader. "Aren't we all the same here, though?"

"Oh, of course we're all 'equals' here. People would complain if we didn't at least say that." Bannon wouldn't know a conspiratorial tone if it whispered secrets in his ear, but he certainly tried. "But you and I know better, don't we?"

Right. Of course I did. If that sentence was any indication, I knew that he was so much better than anyone else, except where it mattered: inside.

"Hey!" Well, that couldn’t be good. People shouting at me either want me to do something for me or they want to kill me, generally. I turned, looking to the stall next door to the ammo shop.

"Yeah?"

I really didn't know what to make of Seagrave Holmes. Anyone who made a habit of walking around in a T-shirt, overalls, and a motorcycle helmet was either criminally deprived of fashion or brilliantly, gloriously insane. He waved me over, lowering his voice. "Did Bannon talk to you about his seat on the council?"

"Yeah, bragged about it like a dad whose son just won the Vault football championship."

"Did he ask anything about me?"

"Ummmm… No." Well, strictly speaking, he hadn't. Not this time. He'd done it before, but not today. I eyed the scratches on the helmet; maybe that was why Bannon hated him so much. Bannon had set up a quality establishment, carefully folded clothes--and somehow, armor--, displayed them all neatly, dressed like a businessman… Only for a nutjob in coveralls and a helmet to toss up a wire rack full of junk across the way, and call it a shop. A more successful shop, too, if the jingle of caps in Holmes' pockets was any indicator.

Holmes shrugged, and indicated the array of crap. I started picking through it, setting aside some scrap metal to make repair parts. "So," I started. "Zimmer's been looking for a robot…"

"What, that old android? Yeah, Pinkerton can tell you all about that."

Wait, what? "Pinkerton? Who the hell's he?"

"Old guy, knows all about the history of the city. He lives in the forward half of the ship."

Wait, that old, half sunken bit of ship actually had somebody in it? What kind of person would voluntarily choose to live in a spot like that? Even I wouldn't do that, and I live in Megaton!

I'd have to check that out later on; right that moment, I had a date with a gal named Belle Bonny.

***

Ye gads, but this place was a junk. I tapped at the little sign, half hanging off the wall. "The Muddy Rudder, huh?"

"Ye gunna buy anything, or are you just gonna admire my sign?"

"Admire might be a strong word," I admitted, coming down the narrow stairs to the woman behind the bar. Modestly dressed, and with her hair in a tight bun, Belle Bonny looked like nothing so much as she did the pictures in the Vault's books: An old nanny, or perhaps a school teacher. The image was lifted as soon as she spoke, always in the same angry bark.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

Belle Bonny slapped the bar with a greasy rag. "Buying or not? Either buy or get out!"

"I actually have a few questions." I shifted nervously from foot to foot. Don’t get me wrong; I can go gun-to-gun with raiders, super mutants, radscorpions, but Belle? She was scary. The word "Bitch" must have been invented for her.

She eyed me, then pulled a mug from under the counter and used the rag to spread the dirt more evenly. "I'll tell you what I tell all the fresh meat: Don’t start anything down here or I'll have Brock kick your ass."

I leaned on the counter and began toying with an empty whiskey bottle. "Well, I'm interested in the history of Rivet City, how it got started, what happened to make it great. Bannon said that before he got here, it was just a bit of a camp, that he was the one who--"

"Why, that lying son of a bitch!" Bonny's explosion cut me off. "He wasn't even born when I got here!" She grabbed the whiskey bottle out of my hands and pointed it at me like a knife. "Wanna know this tub's history? Only person who really knows it is Pinkerton. And most think he's dead or gone."

Pinkerton. That name again. "Seagraves mentioned him. In the front of the ship?"

She nodded. "He's holed up in the other half of the whip, and he don't like visitors. He'll set you straight."

***

"Dammit!" With a soft *click*, the fifth bobby pin in a row sighed, bent, and died. The door in the front of the ship remained resolutely locked. I was tempted to Wonderglue a mine to the doorjamb and shoot it, just to see if the bloody thing might pop open. Grumbling, I tossed the now-useless bit of wire into the bay and stood up. There had to be a way in. I mean, a guy wouldn't just lock himself into a big space like that with only one door.

I eyed the water next to the pier with some tredidation. As I'd learned crossing the water to get over here, wearing a hundred extra pounds of metal didn't do much for my already pathetic ability to swim. (Didn't you know? Vault dwellers are famous for their ability to swim, since space definitely isn't at a premium underground. Swimming pools everywhere.) The rads were beginning to get to me, too; my stomach was beginning to rebel, threatening a violent outbreak if I didn't suck down a sachet of sweet orange-y radaway.

"Sorry, stomach," I muttered as I turned and walked off the pier, straight into the frigid water of the bay.

With clouds casting the day into a pallid mockery of its oh-so-cheerful Wasteland reality, the sun hadn't yet had a chance to warm up the water beyond, say, three degrees above the freezing point. Armor is good at protecting against bullets, but armor hasn't been designed that will keep water out of your pants. My skin shriveled like a raisin, hiding from the cold as I pulled myself across the hull of the ship. More than the cold, though, the angry ticking coming from my Pipboy told me to get out of the water, and fast.

My luck held; right as I turned the corner of the ship, a small hallway appeared, almost completely underwater. I bit on the rebreather of the helmet, and a small hissing told me the air supply had connected successfully. Now, the only issue was finding my way before the helmet's tiny oxygen supply ran out.

***

At this range, I couldn't miss. The combat shotgun roared in my hands, and a gaping hole appeared in the Mirelurk's barnacle-encrusted shell. It screamed, either in pain or anger, and took a swipe at my good arm. A line of fire burned through my arm, and I met it with a scream of my own. The shotgun blasted a hole in the mirelurk's face, and I sat to tend my wounds.

The front end of the ship stank of death, mildew, and disuse. A few lamps were hooked up to fission batteries, islands of light in the dull red of the emergency lamps. I collected a .44 pistol, and squeed happily at finding more bullets for Li'l Macintosh. If I'd known just how rare and expensive these bullets were, I'd have saved them instead of squandering them on raiders and muties. Someone left a little present next to the ammo boxes, but I managed to pull the disarming tab on the mine before it could liquify my kneecaps.

A small electrical box squatted on the wall next to a slab of a door. Flipping the switch showed it to be the door that I'd spent nearly half an hour trying to unlock, so I kept it unlocked, turning to go deeper into the ship.

My nose wrinkled as I walked down the hallway; this section had a different scent to it, like a construction worker's fart. It reeked of methane, or perhaps that little camping stove that I'd fixed up when I was eleven.

I looked up as a rope snapped under my feet, and a trio of grenades clinked to the floor.

I almost made it back to the door before they exploded, and a rush of fire came up to greet me.

***

I groaned. That alone surprised me. Normally, people who've been crisped like that don't get up again. A whine came from my left, and a cold nose dug into my side again. "I'm up, I'm up…"

Dogmeat grinned at me as I sat up, clutching my head where I'd fallen against the railing. "Dogmeat, I'm going to find the man who set these traps, and I'm gonna figure out new ways to inventively vent my displeasure." Maybe something involving a dentist's drill.

My anger was still simmering when, two shotgun traps, a pressure plate, a mine, and a trapped computer terminal, I finally got to where I was going. At least, I thought it was. It certainly seemed to be more inhabited than before, and my EFS marked one arrow--non hostile.

http://i.imgur.com/egXylqM.png

I picked my way over the tilted floor. Thje hole place seemed to be a machinist's paradise; shelf after shelf of parts formed one entire section, neatly sorted into conductors, pilot lights, fission batteries, and more. I grinned, and surreptitiously knocked a few into my bags as I passed.

What? Yeah, I was a walking ammo and caps dispenser, but I got that way by not being dumb with money. If he wanted to fund my expedition, I'd gladly let him.

The man with the battered assault rifle turned to meet me as I came up the stairs to the little balcony overlooking the supply area. "How the hell did you get in here?"

"Li'l bit of scuba diving."

He snorts. "I suppose you can't be all that bad if you made it this far without dying. You made it past my defenses, which proves you aren't a dummy. And you haven't killed me so I suppose you aren't here to do that. Now, what the hell are you doing bothering an old man who obviously wants to be left alone? Get on with it, already!"

"You're Pinkerton?" I'll admit, I'm a bit surprised. The guy looks like he must be fifty or sixty years old, and that assault rifle would be liable to shatter the bones in his arms.

He chuckled, but most true laughs have less resigned bitterness to them. "Yeah, that's me. Hmph. I'm the guy that got Rivet City up and running in the first place!"

Bingo. All I had to do was keep him talking. No problem there; It seemed like the problem would be getting him to shut up. "And after all that, Li and her gang of flunkies pushed me out. Ha! Project Purity indeed. What a bunch of morons -- They can't even clean some water!"

"You know, I haven't heard of you before today."

He snorted. "Now, why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Could you tell me a bit about the city? I heard you were here when it got started."

He nodded. "For that, you have to go all the way back to when remnants of the Naval Research Institute cleared the Mirelurks off this wreck about 40 years ago. We were looking for new lab-space, and this bucket of bolts just happened to have a well-preserved science bay on it." A hint of smug pride crept into his voice. "Everything else just grew up around that lab once we got it up and running. The science team was led by one 'H. Pinkerton.' That lasted until 'bout 18 years ago, when those ambitious backbiters like Li and her little team showed up. She came in, with her big 'Purity Project' pipe dream, and my whole staff started working with her, those traitors!"

Gee, bitter much?

"She even took my seat on the council! By then, I was glad to leave it behind. But hell if I'm leaving the city I made great! Here! They probably don't even remember, but I kept the records of that first council meeting. Take them, if it'll put them in their place!"

I nodded, scanning the little holotape into my pipboy's memory store. "Now, one more thing… I've been looking for a lost Android. Anything you can tell me about that?"

And with that, he closed up tighter than a lawyer's wallet. "What're you talking about, boy? I don't know anything about any of that, and a… what-did-you-call it? An android? What's that?"

"Pinkerton, you're the only one could have done it. And Seagraves told me you did it."

"Fine. Whatever. This android, calls himself Harkness now, comes in and wants a memory job."

Wait, what? "Harkness? Security chief, seat on the council Harkness?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. I ain't been near those backbiters in eighteen years. Anyway, I took new memories, and replaced his old ones. Don't believe anyone's done that before. Certainly not down here! That Commonwealth tech isn't all that fancy when it comes down to it. I'm the only one in the wasteland with the skill and the nerve to perform facial surgery. That android flesh ain't so different than ours. You want proof? I documented the whole thing. So I could rub it in the face of Dr. Li when I need to rankle her feathers." His voice dropped off a bit. "...hate that snooty bitch." His glare returned. "It's all in my computer. Here's the password. See for yourself. Hell, just take these pictures and this holotape. Straight from the synthman's mouth."

For something that was supposed to be such a great secret, he was awfully loose in letting the information slip. I frowned, waiting for an attack that never came. "If that's all… Mind if I use your workbench?"

***

It was a brilliant day. The clouds had cleared, and it was looking like a brilliant fall afternoon. And behind me, the bottlecap mine chirped its happy tune in front of Pinkerton's door. We'd see how well he liked traps.

***

Well, now the issue was what to do with all the information I'd gotten? I thought that Moira would be satisfied with this information, but what about Harkness? Even standing right next to him, I couldn't tell anything was wrong. No scars, no nothing.

Pinkerton had been kind enough to give me the verbal passcode to restore the android's memories, but should I really do that? I had a hand waiting for me if I didn't; I could just walk away, enjoy the ability to shoot a sniper rifle again, and have a happy life.

...At the cost of dooming an innocent man-robot-thing to slavery again.

Dammit. I was going to have to do something stupid again, wasn't I?

"Sooo… Harkness."

"I'm a little busy right now," he snapped. "Is there a problem?"

Well, best to be blunt about it. "I don't suppose you already know that you're a robot, do you?"

"Look, kid, I don't have time for existential debate. And I'm not interested in whatever religion you're peddling."

"No, really! You're an android, from the commonwealth!" This wasn't going too well.

"Kid. You have exactly five seconds to explain what you're trying to do here, or you'll be leaving Rivet City by way of the nearest porthole."

"The truth will speak for itself," I said, pulling out Pinkerton's before-and-after pictures. "I have evidence."

"All right," he smirked. "I'll humor you."

His reaction was everything I'd hoped.

http://i.imgur.com/JDgF9d2.jpg
http://i.imgur.com/hFv4wQF.jpg

"I'll admit, this is pretty convincing evidence, but it doesn't make any sense. How can this be possible?" He crossed his arms, looking at the floor. For a minute, I really felt for the guy. A day ago, I'd found out that my life was a lie. How must he be feeling?

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "But this is the only way. Activate A3-21 Recall Code Violet."

With a cry, the man dropped to the ground. "My god. I… I remember. I remember it all. From before. Zimmer. The Commonwealth. The institute. My God, all those runners I brought down!" He took my hand, and got to his feet again. "You… You made me remember. Why? How? I… Never mind. I just.. My God. What am I going to do? My life. Everything. It's all a lie…"

"I can't help you there. Whiskey always helps me. Still, you need to do something about Zimmer."

His eyes narrowed. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to shove him into a very small box, and send him north where he belongs."

Crap. "Actually, I was hoping you'd let me take care of him."

"Hmm… He is a security threat, isn't he? All right, I authorize you to carry out Doctor Zimmer's execution." He twisted, pulling a long, mean-looking energy rifle off of his back. "Here, use my weapon. I've had it forever, and it's never let me down. Consider it a token of my appreciation."

I nodded, admiring the sleek wiring and long, dangerous looking barrel. "My pleasure. And good luck."

***

"Just a minute," Dr. Zimmer said, standing over where I lay on his bed. "I'll have those nerves connected in no time."

I'm not sure what cocktail of drugs Zimmer was using, but I couldn’t feel a thing. My arm splayed open, a flayed tube with a spider's web of wire running over and through it. The most important thing, though, was at the end: perfect, no scars, just wonderful, soft, moving digits. A spark flashed, and the doctor began sewing up my arm.

"Harkness, you say?" I hissed, drawing back my arm. The doctor chuckled, tucking his thumbtack back into his coat pocket. "Good, the nerves are working. Yes, yes that makes sense. He used to work for a special branch of the Commonwealth Police, after all. Thank you for your discreet assistance, and continued discretion regarding this matter."

"Well, it was in my best interest to help you," I murmured. "No trouble at all. And this hand will keep going?"

"Oh, yes. Nanobots, self-healing, pain relays, nerve endings, everything. So long as you don't do anything stupid, it should be just fine."

My god… this thing was amazing. I pulled a bullet from my pouch, and rolled it around, just to feel the sensation of cold brass pressing against my fingers. "Thank you," I said. "Now, just one more thing."

He turned from packing his bags, and froze at the sight of Harkness' plasma rifle hovering inches from his nose. "What are you--?"

TSEEW! A blue bolt jumped between the barrel and Zimmer's head. Even as Zimmer liquefied, Zimmer's bodyguard shouted and started to fire with his assault rifle. VATS guided another energy bolt to his head, snapping it against the wall. "Harkness says hello," I muttered, turning, and walking out.

Note: Level up!
New Perk! Cyborg, level 1: You've made permanent enhancements to your body! The Cyborg perk adds 3% to your Damage, Poison, and Radiation resistances, and five points to your Energy Weapons skill!
Quest perk! Wired Reflexes: Advanced technology from the Commonwealth has increased your reaction speed, giving you a higher chance to hit in VATS.

And now, to see Ferguson's new toys!

Mr. Chatter:
http://i.imgur.com/jDTKHrs.png
A3-21's Plasma Rifle
http://i.imgur.com/8vKcPLj.png


And now, we have a problem. Ferguson really wants to go find his dad, either to thank him or slap him. He could also finish off the Wasteland Survival Guide, or do a sidequest. What do you want him to do next? If WSG, please select either Libraries or Robots.

[Wookieetank]

Must say this is currently my favorite LP to read, well done! :smallsmile:


(Didn't you know? Vault dwellers are famous for their ability to swim, since space definitely isn't at a premium underground. Swimming pools everywhere.)

Brilliant. :smallbiggrin:

I vote for dad, there's enough questions being raised, particularly with the recent info gathered in Rivet City, that he needs to be located and start fessing up.

[Balmas]

Must say this is currently my favorite LP to read, well done! :smallsmile:

Well, I... Er...

http://images.wikia.com/mlp/images/7/74/Applejack_blush_S02E14.gif

Well, shucks. Thank you!

[Balmas]

Family.

For as long as I've been alive, Dad and I have been a family of two. He was the one who picked me up when I skinned my knee on the stairs of the Vault, and ignored tons of safety rules by having me play with guns in the reactor level, and gave me The Talk when I figured out that Amata did not, in fact, have a pair of cancerous growths on her chest. (That was an awkward half hour, let me tell you.)

Then he walked out on me. What with all the things I'd been doing--running away, fighting for my life, etc--I'd never really gotten the chance to just sit back and think on that. Maybe that was why I kept doing it, kept going out each morning and patching myself up until exhaustion dragged me to bed at night. So long as I was busy, engaged, working to stay alive, I wouldn't be able to think about how I'd been hung out to dry like yesterday's news by my own father.

Now, Doctor Li and three concentrated days of sitting around the ship had ripped a hole in my fragile mental defenses. Dogmeat was good, but I needed more. I wanted my dad back. I wanted someone to talk to, someone to tell me that I'd done well, someone to hold when the Wasteland got to be too much.

An extra set of hands holding a gun would be nice, too.

"Now try and hide from this!" Oh, believe me, I wanted to. Trouble was, I was pinned down. Bullets were pinging off the wall behind me, and beginning to wear through the filing cabinets I was cowering behind. Frantically, I swapped out the hissing, smoking micro-fusion cell for a fresh battery, and risked a blind potshot over the top. A sharp yelp of pain was reward enough, until the cabinet shook under a fresh volley of angry bullets. "I'm gonna eat your arms when you're dead, human!"

"That's not really encouragement for me to come out, now is it?" I screamed back. This couldn't last much longer. I was outnumbered, and those Chinese assault rifles the mutants were using had already started to wear holes in my armor. If I didn’t do something, and fast, I'd wind up on the menu after all.

I howled as a cackle of automatic fire shredded my spine. I really ought to have been counting just how many mutants I was shooting at; one had circled around the Jefferson Memorial's wasted gift shop, and now stood, leering over me.

VATS was my savior, sending two sharp blasts into the mutant's face. It was probably my imagination, but I could swear that the rapidly atomizing pile of goop looked surprised.

Well, that was encouraging, at least. The muffled whooosh of a missile launcher showed me the wisdom of moving, but two wildly-aimed plasma bursts sent the missile launcher clanging on the floor, and the super mutant to float away on the wind.

Really, I ought to have been using my assault rifle. The bullpup arrangement meant that it was easier to use indoors, after all, but dammit, I had a new toy, and I was going to play with it! I cackled as I reloaded. I could practically hear Dad now: "You killed how many?"

I whooped as a lucky headshot melted another super mutant to his component atoms, his grenades thumping hollowly on the pile. Was it wrong that I was enjoying this? When did fighting for my life become a game? What the hell was wrong with me? I vaguely remembered torturing a mutant to death while under the illuminating light of psycho, but I didn't have that excuse right now.

The last super mutant looked from the two piles of ash to the slightly warped grin on my face, and decided that a tactical retreat was probably in order. No chance of that; I bellowed and hurled myself through the doorway after it, before stopping short.

http://i.imgur.com/vnPk124.jpg

Well, that's not something a guy gets to see every day…

A gun barked, and the sudden sting in my arm reminded that I still had a job to do. The mutant ducked back behind a pillar, but not before VATS sent a blue bolt stinging into its leg. I reached around the pillar and squeezed off a blind burst, grinning as the little red arrow in my EFS went out.

Now, this place had a lot of things, but what it didn have was my Dad. Not a trace of blue jumpsuit anywhere. The super mutants couldn't have been here long, either; I didn't see any mesh bags full of blood and guts strung up like the garish decorations of a serial killer.

Huh. Wonder if I qualify as a serial killer?

I shook off the thought, and began moving towards the stairs. There weren't any bullet holes, either. I contemplated the large control panel, pressing a button idly. No good; the entire thing was deader than the super mutants outside. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of mold and mildew coming from the leaking edges of the window. Dad never had mastered the ability to keep things clean.

"Whereever Dad is," I told Dogmeat, "he was long gone by the time the muties moved in." Which was good for him, bad for me.

So, if he wasn't here, where was he? I eyed the pile of holotapes stacked on top of what looked like a control panel, and shoved the one labled No. 5 into the Pipboy.


Even in Vault 101, my work on Project Purity never really stopped…

Dad! He'd been here! I hugged Dogmeat, and kept listening to Dad's tired voice.

Soon after we arrived, my nightly routine included sneaking into the restricted areas. Searching for, I don't know, whatever I could find. It was a Vault-Tec facility after all. The place was built with some of the most advanced technology this country had ever developed. Those excursions never turned up anything particularly useful. So one night, after half a bottle of scotch, I broke into the Overseer's office. It was easy enough to hack his console, gain access to the restricted files. Most of it was garbage: propaganda, spy reports, just plain rambling bull****, really. But there was one thing, one name that stood out amongst all the others... Dr. Stanislaus Braun. I knew of Braun's work, of course. He was a celebrity in his day. Vault-Tec's sorcerer-scientist, leaving his peers in awe of his technological wizardry. But it was in Vault 101 that night in the Overseer's office, that I first learned of Braun's involvement in Vault-Tec's social preservation program, and his work on something called GECK, Garden of Eden Creation Kit.

Was that it? I frowned, and popped out the holotape to make room for the next one.


To be honest, the GECK sounded like pure fantasy, even for someone of Braun's capabilities. It was nothing short of a miracle. A terra-forming module, capable of producing life from complete lifelessness. But not only was this thing a reality, it was actually distributed to several vaults to be used after an atomic war. Vault 101 was, sadly, not on that list. I did some digging and discovered Braun's name on the reservation list for a Vault 112. I'm no slouch, but this man, he could have easily succeeded where I failed. Does his collected knowledge remain within the halls of Vault 112? Journals, holotapes, computer records, maybe even experiments? If I could gain access to just a fraction of Braun's genius, Project Purity would become a reality.

Yeah, I'd seen a reference to some kind of GECK in the overseer's computer, when I was supposed to be sweeping his office for bugs. Terra-forming… Like, world-shaping? We could do something about the wasteland? Fix it? I had a sudden image of a world like the pictures I'd seen in Dad's old books, or in those old encyclopedias I kept finding around: Grass, green and vibrant, rolling like a perpetual blanket over hills full of trees. And forests! Animals that weren't trying to eat the people who visited them! And oh, the people! With a source of water and food, they wouldn't have to worry about where their next meal would come from. We'd be able to rebuild, to grow as a people, to finally change the hell that the people of two hundred years ago had left for us!

Course, that didn’t change the fact that my dad had run out on me. Pretty damn good reason to leave; saving the world was a rather worthy goal. Still, here I am! Your son! Maybe a word to the wise would have been in order? "Oh, hey! I'm gonna go risk everything on a plan that might not work. Get good at dodging bullets, 'cause I'm leaving you here. No, don’t try and help, you're obviously not as competent as I am." Dammit, I hoped he was wearing power armor and hauling an armory's worth of weapons when I found him, or else I'd be perfectly justified in smacking him around.

Then again, I wasn’t too sure I wouldn't do that anyway.


I'm off to Vault 112 to search for anything of Braun's that might help me get this purifier up and running. All I know is that it's West of some place called "Evergreen Mills," and it's well hidden in some sort of garage. But I'll find it, I have to. It's so close, but that's the story of Project Purity, isn't it? An eternity of "almost there's". Let's see if Braun has the missing puzzle piece.

I growled, and hurled the useless holotape into the murky waters under the purifier. West of Evergreen Mills? That would be useful, if I only knew where that was! Even the pipboy was letting me down: not a single map marker off a vague, useless comment, like it would usually have.

The weather seemed to mirror my mood as I biked back to Megaton. Grey storm clouds oozed in, drops of angry rain thundering down like a drum solo by Thor. By the time I dragged the bike under the eaves of the gateway, the only thing I was thinking about was getting inside, draining the water out of my boots, and getting to bed.

***

If I'd known the weather would be like this, I wouldn't have bothered getting up so early. I glared at the horizon; it wobbled like a drunken sailor, the sun blurring everything and baking me in my armor.

"Let's see what we have here," I muttered to Dogmeat. "Café, general store, little busted in diner thing… No sign of raiders,"--I thrust my head around a corner--"and no sign of Talon ambushers. Hang on…" There was movement in the distance. Two arrows on EFS--not hostile.

The two blurred sillhouettes solidified into a pair of men, lugging assault rifles. Not exactly what I'd call threatening , really. If it came to a fight, all I'd have to do is sit back, trust my armor not to fall apart at a critical junction, and… My gosh, what was wrong with me?

I pulled myself away from plotting the untimely death of two people I'd only barely met and cautiously waved hello. They nodded back, and came towards me, taking a seat next to me. "Damn, it's hot," said the one wearing a burgundy leather shirt.

"And all the meat's gotten away," grumbled his partner, the one in black.

I nodded, digging in my pack. Now was as good a time as any for lunch. "What do you hunt, Mirelurks?"

"This far from the river?" Red Shirt snorted. "As if. Nah, the meat all made a break fer it back past Tenpenny Tower."

Black Leather dipped into his own pack, allowing me a glimpse of round metal objects. Wrong shape for grenades, and too big for mines. "Whatcha got there?"

Black Leather frowned at me, pulling out a small metal ring with a box protruding from one edge. "Never seen a bomb collar before?"

"No, not really." He passed it over, and I puzzled it over. The blinking red light meant that it was probably active, and if my guess was right, the little box held a receiver for a detonator of some kind. The shape was all wrong, though; with that thick, heavy outer rim, and the way the charges were all packed in the lining, if the bomb went off, the only shrapnel would be inside the edge. Useless for any kind of suicide attacker, trained dogs, anything like that.

"What, you live unner a rock yer whole life?"

"Hey, don't knock the Vaults," I shot back, grinning. "They happen to be very comfortable rocks."

Red Shirt spewed beans all over the wall. "Holy ****! That's you?"

Um, what? "Who's me?"

"You're the Vault Legend? One-oh-one? Three-dog's poster-boy?"

"Three-Dog?"

The two exchanged looks. "He really does live under a rock." Red Shirt grinned. "See, this… is a gun… This is a detonator. That over there is a tree."

"Har di har. No, really. Who's this Three Dog, and why should I know him?"

"He's only the guy who runs the best radio station in the wasteland."

"I'm guessing you're not talking about the science fiction one."

"Nah! GNR! He don’t think much of slavers, but he's got good music, and won't shut up about the legend of Vault 101, our hero, our exemplar, the wasteland Messiah. That's you, by the way."

"Me?" Really? "I'm no hero."

"Save a community from costumed cuckoos? Check! Clear ants out of a different town, and bring the only survivor to civilization? Check!" Black Leather counted off on his fingers. "Disarmed active nuclear bomb, preventing possible annihilation of a different town? For someone who isn't a hero, you've sure been doing a hell of a lot of hero-ing."

"Hey!" A light had popped on in Red Shirt's eyes. "Maybe he could help us!"

"Maybe," agreed his partner. "Well, 101? How'dja like to earn a few spare caps helping us track down some meat?"

"Well, I'm kind of busy with my own project right now, but I could keep an eye out. Whaddya like? Radroach? Yao Guai? I like mirelurk, myself."

Red Shirt guffawed. "What a kidder. No, slaves!"

What. "Slaves?"

"Yeah, slaves," said Black Leather. "Two men and a woman. One of the men's a ghoul, maybe a bit taller than you."

"Slaves? As in, human trafficking? They give you money, you give them humans?"

"Yeah," grinned Red Shirt. "We're the best pair of slavers in this part of the wasteland, Olaf and I. Megaton to Girdershade, if there's people who need a good, heh, home, we're there."

Now, calm down, Ferguson. Maybe you've got it wrong. "Where do the slaves go?"

"Usually, to the Pitt," Black Leather said. "Dunno what they do there, but the rate of attrition must be awful. They need a new batch practically every two weeks. Sometimes more."

"You get occasional requests for more meat sent west, to places like Chicago or even Louis."

"I'm assuming that slaves aren't usually volunteers," I growled. I was beginning to feel that boiling pressure behind my eyes that meant I was about to do something stupid.

Red Shirt snorted. "Oh, hell no. Usually, we pick up stragglers in the waste, slap a collar on them, and call it good. If you're a pro, or if you're in the crapper, Eulogy might send you to a town to try to get a specific person."

"Have you ever considered a career change?" I asked. "Might be good for your health."

Black Leather scoffed. "Are you kidding? Slaving's been the most profitable job I've eve--"

BOOM! Black Leather's head imploded, chunks of bone and buckshot thudding meatily into the wall behind him. Red Shirt swore, and fumbled with the snap on his holster, but my shotgun was already out and pressed against his temple.

"You know," I began, "I've only met two slavers in my life, and they haven't made a good first impression. Hands away from the gun... Good. Now, let me tell you something. All my life, I've been under somebody else. All hail the overseer, and all that bull. If he didn't like you, he could do whatever he liked to you, even kill you. Kinda like you and me, right now.

"If I wanted to, I could… let's see, that kneecap looks awfully tight. Needs bullet therapy, I think." The acrid stink of urine stung my nose. "No? Maybe a nice shot to the gut. Nothing crippling, but enough to make you need to take your shirt off to go to the bathroom. A superfluous behind, how's that sound? ...No?"

"Please, mister…" Red Shirt begged. "I don't know what we've done wrong, but plea--"

"You don't know what you've done wrong?" The pressure was building, and my finger itched to just pull the trigger, end the sniveling waste of space at the end of my shotgun. "You've brought people, and sold them to a fate worse than death. You’ve put this feeling,"--I pressed my shotgun more firmly against his head--"in every person you've enslaved. And you don't know what you’ve done wrong?"

If there was a response, I couldn't understand it under the snotty wave of burbly bawling the wimp was letting out.

"I'm going to let you live," I growled, "but only because I need someone to carry the message, so listen up." He took a break from begging and whinging long enough to bob his head. "I am not a hero, but I know what's ****ing right and wrong. And slavery? That's wrong. I killed a man for trying to enslave a robot; I sure as hell won't stand for people enslaving others." I couldn't have stopped if I wanted to; something behind me was pushing, urging me on. The words pushed on in an urgent torrent. "Go and tell your boss, Eulogy or whatever his name is, that he's done. Slaving is no longer going to happen in this wasteland. If I see a bomb collar, or a whip, or people on chains, there will be hell to pay for the people involved."

Red Shirt gave a burbling, snotty nod, then winced. Too hard with the shotgun? Well, wasn't that just a bloody tragedy for him then? "As for you," I growled, "if I ever see you again, I'll keep you alive with stimpaks just so I can find new ways to hurt the human body. That's the fun thing about stimpaks; since they work so quickly… there'll be no need to wait for you to heal between torture sessions." His Adams apple bobbed rapidly. "Won't that be fun?"

***

So this was Evergreen Mills. From up here on the edge of the massive redstone quarry, I had a wonderful view of the buildings, shacks, and people down below.

More's the pity. I wrinkled my nose at the bodies strung up between fences; I counted two, three… seven different spots with the gruesome decorations, and only enough parts to make perhaps four intact people. If that weren't enough, I could smell the raiders from here. They moved from one spot to another like cannibalistic ants in a macabre child's toy, all reeking of disappointment, bad drugs, and blood. Oh, so much blood.

http://i.imgur.com/3yv0VXh.jpg

There were too many. I… I had no idea that raiders were this capable of living together. There had to be twenty of them. Too spaced out for a grenade, and too busy for a series of shots. I might have been able to pull it off with Harkness's plasma rifle, but I…

**** me. Shove me full of stimpaks and call me a dispenser. How the hell did they get a behemoth? How many bullets had it taken to get it in there? It had to be even bigger than the one that jumped me near the Jury Street Metro station! They ate bullets like candy! The one I'd fought had eaten shrugged four or five of Mr. Chatter's clips without batting an eye! How the **** did these raiders pull that off?

One of the raiders laughed, shaking a tire iron at the behemoth in its little sheet metal pen. I couldn't hear it's garbled speech from where I was, but the howl it gave off when it grabbed at the fence was clear enough. If I was correct, that generator just outside the fence was feeding into the sizzling fence.

Wait a minute… Idea!

The generator exploded nicely from one well placed shot, and I sat back to watch. The screams were delicious.

http://i.imgur.com/UQG0Boc.png

Beautiful.

***

Well, this was probably it.

http://i.imgur.com/JalkNIX.png

The little store had all the markings of a garage; dank, musty air, cars up on blocks, a few toolboxes with parts for my motorcycle, suicidal molerats… I pulled the trigger on the small chainsaw, sending wet molerat bits spattering against the ceiling.

A small hatch in the floor whooshed open as I triggered the wall panel. Yes, this was looking promising. Another molerat charged, eager to embed my ripper into its face as I came down the stairs. Narrow corridors, steps that made a catwalk over a pit of lava seem safe… This was definitely Vault-tec work.

http://i.imgur.com/vwMknWR.png

Bingo.

A klaxon (http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=Y4w9qfrvboU#t=5) wailed, and the heavy vault door squealed back into its geared rail. Now the only thing we had to do was wait for the local neighbors to see what all the fuss was about.

I must have waited there for five minutes before deciding that nobody was coming. Either the inhabitants were all long dead, or they just weren't interested. My traitorous mind conjured images of a vault full of zombies, or worse, full of some terrible monster that had eaten everyone. Surely life wouldn't be so twisted as to kill an entire vault, right?

I don't know what exactly I was expecting when I shot back the bolts and shoved open the steel door, but it sure wasn't a brainbot. "Welcome to Vault 112!" it chirped. "According to sensors, you have arrived 202.3 years behind schedule. Please re-dress in your Vault-Tec issued Vault suit before proceeding. If you have misplaced your suit, I am authorized to distribute a new one." A slot opened in its tube of a torso, and a familiar folded blue package dropped to the floor. "Once dressed, please proceed down the stairs to the main floor so that you may enter your assigned tranquility lounger."

This… This was entirely too creepy. I grabbed the little packet, and unfolded it: brand new. Not a patch, stain, or unidentified odor anywhere on the thing, like the ones I was used to. Were there even people here?

More than anything else, this vault just felt… wrong. Where there ought to have been a security booth, there was just a wall. The overseer's door was locked tighter than… no, wait! I ran a finger along the seam of the door… "Paint?" The overseer's door was just painted on!

So, no Overseer, and from what I could see, no residents either. I tried to ignore the goosebumps that were rapidly appearing all over my arms, but I knew that it wasn't just the cold putting them there. Something about this place was just twisted and messed up.

"Please proceed to your Tranquility Lounger," reminded a canned voice behind me. The robot waved a bulbous arm at a window, and then down towards some stairs. I glanced out the window, and then stopped, pressing my face against the glass.

http://i.imgur.com/xqXItic.png

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

I stumbled down the stairs, and threw myself against the first egg-thing I could. My god, there were people in there! They sat, frozen, immobile. I could see their chests rising and falling, but only just. "I'm really beginning to hate the past," I muttered, moving over to glance at the terminal in front of one of the egg pods. Vital statistics… This guy was in his prime, if the numbers were right. Maybe a bit of high blood pressure, but just fine. If I were to release him right now, he'd be up and kicking with no problem.

Where was the release button?

I circled the room, looking at terminals and pods in turn. What creepy sickos would trust their future to this? Pods filled with women, pods filled with men, pods filled with…

http://i.imgur.com/vRFB2cY.png

"Dad!" Finally! I'd found him! I wouldn't have to trot off and do bugger-all for some crazy bitch who needed three bits of yeast and a fission battery! We could just go home and…

And likely get shot for our troubles. The overseer wouldn't let us back in; hell, I think I might have accidentally killed him on the way out. (It'd certainly explain why Amata was so upset when she showed me the door.)

Still, I had him! We could get out of here, figure out what to do with the GECK, and just take it one day at a time.

Suddenly, the release button was looking a whole lot more important. Yet there just wasn't anything! No power switch, no release button, and the damn glass wouldn't budge, break, or melt! "Hyaaaaaa!" I hurled myself at the edge of the pod, hacking at it with a combat knife; even the plastic molding around the edge refused to give.

Two feet. "Dammit!" My knife bounced on the floor, and I sagged after it. "Why?" Two damn feet were all that was between me and my dad, and I couldn't figure out how to get in!

"Please proceed to your tranquility lounger," said a robot behind me.

"Listen, you malfuntioning scrapheap," I snapped, "I'm in the middle of figuring out how to…"

Wait a minute. I frowned, looking at the bright, almost unworn blue of Dads's vault suit, and the clean, bright gold 112 picked out in embroidery on the edge of the collar, and then at the suit I'd been given.

"Dogmeat," I said slowly, "if I don't get out… Well, have a good life. Find a nice bitch somewhere. Have puppies." My armor went neatly by the side of the pod, weapons lined up next to it. A pod hissed open, and I hiked myself up into it. The chair was comfortable enough; I could almost feel myself dropping off as the pod went to work. The lid dropped over me, a screen lifting up to meet my face: A town? Was this what the world was like before the war?

http://i.imgur.com/vXnCICc.png

My eyes shot open in alarm as a girl appeared on the screen, but by then it was too late; the pod had me, and I blacked out.

Note: Level up!
Perk Added: Sniper: You have a much greater chance to hit an opponent's head in VATS.

I may have... *ahem* taken some liberties with dialogue.

[Wookieetank]

Om nom nom, mmm tasty LP. :smallsmile:

[Triaxx]

Awesome LP, though 112, and Lamplight are the two parts I hate the most.

[Mando Knight]

Awesome LP, though 112, and Lamplight are the two parts I hate the most.

Yeah... Lamplight... do the mungoes that make it to Big Town and settle down put their babies at Lamplight's doorstep, or is there a Vault-Tec Baby Engine™ hidden around a corner we can't get at?

[Balmas]

Yeah... Lamplight... do the mungoes that make it to Big Town and settle down put their babies at Lamplight's doorstep, or is there a Vault-Tec Baby Engine™ hidden around a corner we can't get at?

Note to self: sabotage baby generator.

[Mando Knight]

Or are Lamplighters given babies by the rarely-seen Mole-Stork?

[Wookieetank]

I just figured they were a bunch of adults with the mentality and stature of children due to radiation exposure.

[dirtytricks]

Just what is needed to bring balance to the wasteland... an army of surly midgets.

[Wild Zubat]

The Shoulder Slaad returns!

So, what to do on Tranquility Lane? How about... stack a few objects at random? Throw things at Betty, she'll love it! Oh, and don't forget to eat every item of foodstuff you can find. Activate the Failsafe, and last but not least... playgrounds are fun! Chaos is fun!

[Balmas]

Whelp, I had most of tranquility lane typed up today.

Then my laptop decided it no longer wished to live, and that it would take its secrets to the grave with it.

What will happen to our intrepid anti-hero? Find out in the next installment, coming whenever the hell I get something to type on that's better than a Kindle. :smallsigh:

[dirtytricks]

Wow, that bites man. Sorry to hear about your laptop. Hope you figure something out soon, there's a lot of people waiting for the next chapter in this great story you got going here. Good luck

[Wookieetank]

Oh noes. :smallfrown: Was greatly enjoying this LP. I hope Ferguson doesn't get stuck in Tranquility lane for eternity. :smalleek:

[Balmas]

Whelp, my wonderful supporters, I have some great news, some bad news, and some terrible news.

First the great news. While my old Lenovo Thinkpad T61p was a pretty decent laptop, my new one blows it out of the water. Seventeen inch screen, dual Nvidia graphics cards--GeForce Go 7950 GTX SLI, for the curious in the audience-- and a neat little alien peeking out of the laptop screen. It's an Alienware Area 51 m9750. And I love it. At $520 dollars, it's a steal.

It's not without its share of problems; the processor is nothing really special, an Intel Core 2 Duo, clocked at 2.33. (I plan to clock that up to 2.8 when I can.) The keyboard is kind of weird, and really far away from the edge of the laptop. No, really. There's five inches between the hard, cutting front edge and the space bar, so it cuts into my wrists a bit unless I'm actually at a desk. And I really want to be at a desk when I use this; the power supply alone weighs as much as my old laptop. This thing is a brick.

Another thing that I'm really having problems with is the touchpad: it's super sensitive, so the slightest touch triggers a click. This can be a problem, especially when I'm trying to type.

These are just teething issues, though. I'll get used to it eventually.

And now the good news! Windows 8.1 is coming out, soon, so I'll be able to update my operating system. I even get a discount, since my dad is one of the techies at Microsoft.

And the bad news: the version of Windows that came with the new laptop didn't include Microsoft Office, and I'm just cheap enough that I'm not gonna buy it. That means that, while the hard drive is perfectly good, and I even have space for a second hard drive, I cannot open my One-note files or work on them.

So, ETA on our next chapter is a couple weeks for the new OS, and then a week to work on the actual chapter. Again, sorry for the delay, but life intervened.

See you in three weeks!

[Wookieetank]

Have you tried looking into Open Office (http://www.openoffice.org/) ? In my experience its able to open anything made in Microsoft Office, and you can save your files in any number of formats (including ones compatable with Microsoft office). I've been using it for the past 7 years or so and has worked just fine for me. :smallsmile:

[Triaxx]

Yeah, open office is fantastic. What's one-note?

[Mando Knight]

Yeah, open office is fantastic. What's one-note?

It's Microsoft Office's neat note-taking thing. It's like a notebook on your computer.

[Balmas]

Have you tried looking into Open Office (http://www.openoffice.org/) ? In my experience its able to open anything made in Microsoft Office, and you can save your files in any number of formats (including ones compatable with Microsoft office). I've been using it for the past 7 years or so and has worked just fine for me. :smallsmile:

Oooh, that looks fantastic. Now it's just a matter of reinstalling mods, and playing through Tranquility Lane again, since the laptop transfer nuked all of my screenshots.

Maybe I can cut it down to a week, but no promises. FOMM is being stupid on me.

[Tychris1]

Alright kid, time to get dirty! Think about it, a virtual reality! No rules, no responsibilities, pure freedom for you! Go ahead, butcher your way through this place, become king of this new reality as you rightfully deserve! And if they resist, start offing people until they get the message. Just keep one thing in mind, don't take **** from no one.

Oh, and if you bump into your dad tell him you were liberating him from these savages. Flawless!

[Balmas]

Well, it turns out that there are some definite perks to being the son of a Microsoft techie. He had fifteen copies of Office lying around, and gave me one. I should have the update within a few days.

[Wookieetank]

Well, it turns out that there are some definite perks to being the son of a Microsoft techie. He had fifteen copies of Office lying around, and gave me one. I should have the update within a few days.

Yay! On a mildly related note, I finally have my own copy of FO3:GotY as of this past weekend. Now I just have to drag myself away from Minecraft and Terraria long enough to install it, let alone play it.

[Triaxx]

Believe me, it's definitely the right sort of game to play when Minecraft makes you rage quit.

[Wookieetank]

Believe me, it's definitely the right sort of game to play when Minecraft makes you rage quit.

Oh I know, I got FO3 when it first launched and it was the only game I played (every day no less) for over a month. Its only taken me till now to finally get around to having all the DLC for the game. :smallsmile:

[Balmas]

Every day, I tell myself, "Okay, T. Eight hours to do your job. Go to, and fill this page with words."

Then the internet happens. Ten hours later, I've written two words. Good day.


Incidentally, if anyone knows how to disable the tap-to-click feature of touchpads in Windows 7, that'd be greatly appreciated. The touchpad is right under the space-bar and is super sensitive, so any time I try to type, I find that there are random bits of sentence clumped around whereever the cursor is located.

[Triaxx]

There should be a function key and a touchpad icon on one of the keyboard keys. Use those two together, and it'll turn it on and off. That way you can type with out worrying about hitting the pad.

[Balmas]

Confusion.

I'm no stranger to befuddling circumstances. Back in the vault, there were times when I just wanted to throw my hands up and scream, "Why?" (The less that is said of Officer Lopez's box of… toys, the better.) Since reaching the Capitol Wasteland, things haven't gotten much better. Now it's a combination of screaming at the heavens, wondering how such a large critter managed to fit into such a small space, and running for my life.

Still, for confusion, not much can beat going to bed in an egg-tube and waking up in the 2050s.

"Ugh…" Initially, that was the only thing I was capable of; I felt like I'd been worked over by a troop of irate mutants just before being put through a wringer two sizes too small. Once the pain decided that it had better things to do and scarpered, I put myself to figuring out where I was.

Hard. Without opening my eyes, I ran my hand over the surface I was lying on. Hard, and yet with a bit of smooth give to it. My fingers found a straight edge, and I traced it up and down. You didn't get this kind of orderly line in nature; only people had such a fixation with having everything be at ninety-degree angles.

Ah, that's where I'd felt this kind of stuff before! I found stuff like it in old, blasted-out houses. What was it called? Wood?

So, I was sitting--lying, really--on something made of wood, in an area that had, at least at some point had humans in it. And… was that music? How'd I miss that? It was a bouncy, cheery leitmotif that had me thinking of puppies, hot chocolate, and serial killers. There had to be a way to turn it off, or I'd be liable to snap within the hour.

Well, if I was among humans, or even among mutants, and nothing had tried to eat me, it was probably safe to open my eyes.

"AAAAAUGH!" I was blind! I couldn't see anything. White, everywhere! I couldn't be blind! I needed to see in order to shoot!

The world spun underneath me as I flailed about, before thumping heavily to the ground. Dammit, I couldn't be blind. I pulled myself up, willing them to work; nothing.

"Hey there, sport!" GAH! Dammit, what was it with the wasteland? Why did everything have to announce its presence through void-yer-bowels startling introductions? Sounded like… adult, male, and friendly. Hints of shapes began to swim in my vision; I let them solidify into…

Huh. Well, now I was even more confused. It was as if I'd stepped out of Vault 112, and straight into a Vault-tec propaganda movie. Pretty, whitewashed little houses lined a small cul-de-sac, each with a perfectly tended flower-bed and a little mailbox out front. And trees! I gawked at the soaring, leafy figures, parked on each corner like silent, peaceful guardians. Leaves… I don't think I'd ever seen them before, except on the blasted little bits of scrub brush.

It… It was beautiful.

"You okay there, sport?"

Granted, it was as if someone had leached all the color out of the world, but still! I got up, watching the scene like a starving man looks at a twelve course-banquet. The Sun was out, with a cool breeze and the occasional cloud to put it at a perfect temperature. Actually, that was a good word to describe it: perfect.

"Sport!"

"Gah!" I snapped out of my stupor and back to the issue at hand. He must have been a good foot or two taller than I was; I'd have been scared, if he didn't look so concerned.

"You alright, Sport?"

In fact, it was all I could do to stifle a laugh. This guy was just… such an oddball, out-of-left-field non sequitur that I had no idea how to handle him. "Uh… Yeah, I think so. No bullet holes, right?"

I looked down at myself, and just about felt my heart stop. No bullet holes, alright. No armor, either. Worst of all, though? My pipboy was gone.

Now, to someone who isn't from a Vault, that may not seem like such a big deal. It's just a big chunk of metal strapped to your wrist, after all. Thing is, it's a very useful chunk of metal. Targeting function, time, date, helping to administer medical supplies, a screen that could be made to glow like a lamp. A casing that I'd been wonderfully surprised to learn was tough enough to stop bullets.

Thing was, it was hard to think of a time when I hadn't been wearing that chunk of metal. It was a symbol that you were an adult, that you had a job, that you could be trusted. It never came off. If the specs I'd seen were right, it hooked directly into my nervous system. Its loss hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut: in addition to the feeling of betrayal, I felt moderately sick.

Compared to that, the fact that I had apparently undergone a reverse-puberty was relatively normal.

"This can't be real," I muttered. Think, Ferguson! How could this be real? Grey-scale. Some sort of perception filter? No, that wouldn't explain how I was suddenly a child again… or why I abruptly looked like I'd been dressed by a blind pimp. A blind pimp with bad fashion sense. "Where am I?"

"Why, you're in Tranquility Lane," chirped the man, proudly puffing out his chest and waving a hand around. "The most perfect little neighborhood ever.:

Tranquility Lane. Tranquility Lounger. That sparked a few brain cells together. "This is, what, some kind of computer simulation?"

http://i.imgur.com/vrR5pO2.png

I bristled; Grognak happened to be a collectors' item, thanks very much.

He must have seen my reaction, because he chuckled and pointed to a small playground in the center of the cul-de-sac. (Damned stupid place for it, if you ask me.) "You should go talk to Betty. She's waiting for you over on the playground. Have fun, sport!"

Fun. Right. "Before I go, can you tell me about the neighborhood?"

"Besides how wonderful it is to live here?" Okay, now I was sure it had to be a simulation of some kind. Nobody real could possibly be this cheerful, happy, or irritatingly secure in their existence. "Everyone's very friendly. Even Old Lady Dithers, though she's lot most of her marbles."

Right. "I don't suppose you've seen my dad? Six-threeish, white hair, has something on his chin that he pretends is a goatee?"

"Nope, fraid not. Don't you worry about it, though. You'll find him."

Wonderful place you have here. Kid's missing his father? What could possible be wrong there? He wandered off, a grin pasted on his face, blissfully impervious to the daggers I was glaring at his back. Come to think of it, I thought I remembered seeing that dumb smile on one of the egg-pod inhabitants.

So, this was a simulation, then. That'd explain all the machinery and equipment in Vault 112, and why all the inhabitants were in pods. This was some kind of… some kind of experiment, maybe. Riding out the apocalypse in a static bubble of peace and, if you'll pardon the pun, tranquility.

http://i.imgur.com/8MXlk17.png

"Arroof!" Something small and wet pressed into my back. It was a small comfort to find that even as a child, there were objects and lifeforms smaller than I was. Only just, though. The dog nudging at me must have come up to my ribs, at least. If it decided it didn't like me, all it had to do was jump on me and I'd have been pancaked.

"Good dog," I ventured, sticking out a hand for it to sniff. It sulked for just a second, before giving my hand a grudging lick. I didn't even know it was possible for a dog to roll its eyes.

"Oh, someone new to play with!" I quite coolly turned at the new voice. (If anyone ever tells you that I screamed like a little girl and tried to hide behind a slide, that person is a liar. And probably a mind reader, so be careful.) "What good luck I have lately!"

Dear sweet merciful me, but this girl was creepy. Her voice oozed smarm like a salesman oozes deceit, but those eyes… I felt like she was staring into my soul, and trying to find ways to subtly correct faults. "Who're you?" As if I didn't know.

"I'm Betty! I live here on Tranquility Lane. Want to play a game?"

No, I don't want to play a game. I want to find my dad, get the hell out of here, and figure out a way to strap my dad to me so he can't wander off again. "What the hell's going on here?"

http://i.imgur.com/68PpFII.png

No, it wasn't. "What's going on is that you need to tell me where my dad is."

"Oh, don’t worry about that now," she said, speaking as if I were a child in need of tutoring. "There are things to do!"

Yeah, there were. Something snapped in me, and I hauled back. She took the slap like a champion, her death-stare not wavering one bit. "You shouldn't have done that," she hissed.

I growled, starting another swing, only to find that my arm, body, and the world froze around me. "And now you have to pay," she said. I smelled ozone, and had just enough time to witness the purple net of lightning blossom around her before it slammed into me like the tail end of a rhino's charge.

***

Hard. Smooth. Dammit, I was on the bench again.

"Hey, Sport!"

Oh, stick a fork in me and call me a turkey dinner. The moron was back, too.

"You should go talk to Betty!"

I growled and waved him off. The dog whined as I stormed onto the playground again, nudging against me. Betty didn't look up. "Oh, goodie! You're back!"

"Look," I snarled, "I just want to know where my dad is."

"I might have seen him," she teased, staring into my soul. "I might not. What did he look like?"

"He's a scientist," I allowed. "He's looking for Doctor Braun."

"That's your father!?" Her peals of laughter rang through the playground. "Oh, we're going to have such fun together! This is going to be the best game ever!"

I cocked my arm back, but lowered it again at her raised eyebrow. "No more games, you little brat. You tell me where my father is."

It was an empty threat, and we both knew it. She grinned, and stared at me some more. "Oh, don't be mean. That's not a good way to start. I said we're going to play a game, and that's what we're going to do."

"And if I don't want to play?"

"Then I guess you'll never find out where your daddy is." Smugness. I hated it, especially when it came from someone other than me.

"Alright," I grit out. "What's your game?"

She clapped her hands gleefully. "It's a really simple game. All you have to do is make Timmy Neusbaum cry."

Wait. What?! "What kind of sick game is that?"

"It'll be funny," she grinned. "Come on, you'll see."

"You are a sick, twisted little girl," I said warily, and walked off.

***

So. A simulation of some kind, then. Maybe if I could convince the people in here that they weren't actually here, we could talk Betty down. She wasn't a normal girl, I knew that much.

"Well, if this is a simulation, you oughta tell that to my big toe, kiddo. Hurts like the dickens since I stubbed it earlier today. Feel pretty real to me!"

"Sure, Sport. Whatever you say! Haha!"

"Oh, you're such a kidder."

I knew it was a slim chance. Two hundred years hadn't been enough to change anything; why should I?

No. No, I was important! I'd gotten this far, and I wouldn't let something like a pissy little girl get in my way!

Walking through the houses, if anything, made me more certain that this wasn't real. Nothing opened, nothing changed. It was like living in a dollhouse. The thermostat was set forever to a balmy seventy-two degrees, and no amount of wrestling with the dial would change it.

What's more, the houses seemed all alike. Sure, there were minor variations, couches in different spots, etc, but it was like someone had taken half-a-dozen cookie cutter houses and plopped them down. One might have a doghouse out back, or a Mr. Handy, or a radio, but otherwise they were pretty much all the same.

Mrs. Neusbaum ignored me as I pushed into her house. It was just not my day… I didn't really want to play her game, but if Betty knew where my dad was… I sat down at the table, and noted a flyer. Curiosity pushed me to pick it up and take a look at what it was.

"Is your child sickly? Lazy?" blared a title picked out in a bold red over a glaring drill sergeant. "General Mustard's Junior Military Academy will make a man out of your boy!" My eyes picked over the pictures inside the brochure. Severe, austere instructors watching over rank after rank of boys doing pushups. Spartan bunkhouses with boys in uniform and at attention as a larger man inspected for dust. Above all, the almost sadistic glee in the faces of the instructors, and the misery in those of the children. There was an application inside, with "Billy Neusbaum" scrawled in.

I tucked the brochure into my pocket, and made my way to the next house.

"Jeez, what a mess," I grumbled. It was like someone had grabbed a sack, and then run through a junkyard grabbing every fifth thing. A gnome commanded the room, surveying the bottle on a milk crate, pitcher, and half a dozen other things. And, sure enough, none of it was moving anytime soon. I flicked the bottle distemperedly, and it rang out.

Bing! B-Derp.

Wait. Bottles didn't b-derp… I flicked it again experimentally, and again there came a clear, bell-like tone, followed by a grumpy electric burp. Pitcher, gnome…

Bing! B-Derp.
Bing! B-Derp.

The tones were different each time, with the same disappointed note at the end.

I sat down on a milk crate, contemplating the mess. So, this had to be some part of the simulation, but what? Radio…

Bing!

Bing? No B-derp?

Ooooh… It was a code of some sort. Kay, radio, pitcher.

Bing! Bing!
Alright! I frowned as the bottle b-derped on me, and went back to the radio.

***

Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing "Failsafe terminal code accepted."

Yes! I pumped my fist, and turned as a blocky terminal hissed into existence next to the wall. It spat and fizzed, static spasming across its pale surface. If there was any doubt before, this clinched it. Computers this size couldn't be hidden.

http://i.imgur.com/tENvefo.png

So, what was it that needed to be hidden?

I scrolled through the standard Vault-Tec terminal jibber-jabber that I almost missed the note at the beginning: Welcome, Dr. Braun.

Braun… That was the name of that old scientist Dad was after, right? Priority given to… To S. Braun, of course. Robots instructed not to update until S. Braun tells them to. Wait, what's that? "Updated neural inputs to override memory access for individual users?" Neural inputs meant something about what the mind was seeing, probably. So… Braun could control the memories of the people here.

Where was Braun, then? Unless this Vault was designed to be some kind of trap for wandering travelers, the people in the egg-pods had been here for over two hundred years. No reason why Braun couldn't still be here too.

So, where was he? Braun conjured the image of a burly man with a beard the size of my torso, and I hadn't met anyone like that. Or anyone named Braun, to be honest.

I frowned, and tak-a-takked to the next entry: Braun's Log: Toucan Lagoon.

I've finally come to the realization that the Toucan Lagoon simulation has run its course.

I'm tired of the beating sun and ceaseless pounding of the lagoon's waves upon the shore. I no longer take pleasure in watching Simpson wither away from scurvy, or hearing Neusbaum's screams as he's devoured by the mako shark.

I am, quite simply, bored. It is time to reset the simulation once again.

I stared at the terminal, jaw hanging open slightly. Braun was either insane, or possibly sadistic beyond belief. Perhaps both. With a bit of trepidation, I opened the next log.
Yesterday, Dithers slipped on the chalet's icy stairs, went airborne, and managed to impale herself on the wrought-iron fence. It was spectacular! And completely and utterly random!

Is there anything more sublime than that bold crimson on fresh fallen snow?

It was almost enough to make me reconsider a change of scenery. But not quite. 23 years is a long enough vacation in the Swiss Alps.

I long for something more… domestic.

Both. Definitely both. A cold chill ran through my blood, and I felt my gaze being drawn out the dusty window, towards the little playground in the center of the cul-de-sac. A crushed watering can lay under Betty's feet as she glared at me, murder in her eyes.

I shivered, and clicked on the next entry.

I have surprised myself. I find Tranquility Lane… Comforting. Although distinctly American, it somehow reminds me of Kronach, the town of my childhood.

There's a beautiful irony with this particular simulation as well. The residents here are naturally at home, naturally safe. When I toy with them, when their suburban illusion is suddenly broken, it's that much more satisfying.

I do believe we shall all remain here in Tranquility Lane for a very long time. A very long time indeed…

So… I was in a simulation, ruled over by a sadistic psychopath. As I stared back out the window at Betty, I had a very clear idea of what kind of person would want to make a child cry, and call it a game. Didn't really change my situation, but at least I had a better idea of what was going on.

Brilliant, Ferguson. Because knowledge is power, right? Gimme a set of power armor and a high-power machine-gun any day. I find that they make for a much better bargaining experience. Braun was still here, and still help control of the simulation. Unless the machine had something I could use to leverage him out of his insanity, I'd still be stuck here, forced to do what he asked in order to get what I wanted.

Dr. Braun, read the next entry, a subfolder filed under "Chinese Invasion Failsafe," Here is the revised code for the military training program you've expressed interest in. I'm not sure exactly what you want with it, and I again stress that this program was never designed to be run with civilian equipment.

Frankly, I don't expect any system you have acces to can even run it.

But if you can run this program with the failsafes off, as requested… your real-world test subjects WILL die if killed in the simulation.

It goes without saying that, officially, I denied your request.

General Constantine Chase.

I didn't read much of the rest of that letter; the words, highlighted, bolded, and made even larger in the fizz of the staticky terminal were perfectly clear in what the program would do: Simulate a Communist Incursion on US soil. WARNING: TEST SUBJECTS WILL EXPERIENCE REAL WORLD TERMINATION. PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION!

My mouth ran dry as I stared at the terminal. Perhaps two dozen people here, each one linked into a giant computer and living perfect, stable, happy little lives, only occasionally tormented by a sick, twisted man. And I had a computer with a button that could kill them all. No chance to fight back, no going back. The selection cursor hovered over the activation option.

Let me tell you a bit about the Wasteland. It's always been harsh, brutal, and cruel. I'd killed dozens, if not hundreds of people, but usually only when they were trying to kill me already. I could look at their decapitated bodies, and tell myself that they had it coming, or that they deserved it, or simply that it was their own fault for charging a better armored-and-equipped man when all they had was a bit of leather and knife. I could sleep at night that way.

This wasn't like that. They were here, defenseless. If I pressed that button, signed the death warrant on two dozen innocents, how could I get up in the morning? I wouldn't be the Wasteland Crusader, or anything else like that. I might have declared war on Paradise Falls on behalf of slaves everywhere; if those slavers were to be believed, I was being set up as some kind of hero to the entire friggin' wasteland. I may have saved towns, rescued merchants, killed enough raiders to repopulate a cemetary, but if I pressed that button… I sighed, and pulled away from the terminal. I'd be no better than Braun; I'd be a murderer.

I couldn't do that. If it was a choice between slaughtering a dozen innocents or making a child cry, then I guess it was just too bad for Timmy.

I trudged out the door, and over to Timmy's lemonade stand. He smiled, and cheerfully offers me a cup of yellow juice. "First one's free!"

Well, damn. You had to make me like you right before I shoved life into your face.

"Hey Timmy," I started, sipping at the bitter concoction, "did you know that your parents are worried about you?"

He frowns. "No they aren't!"

"Your dad is thinking of sending you to a military school."

"You… You're lying!" I could see the wetness hovering around the edges of his eyes. Why was this so hard? How come I could gleefully torture another man, but balked at making a kid cry?

I gulped, and pulled the pamphlet from my pocket. "I found this in your house. It's true."

And that was all it took. The lemonade pitcher shattered to the ground as Timmy fled into his house, a trail of sobs the only indication of his passing.

I am such scum.

"A clever approach." I jumped a bit; Betty was behind me, nodding approvingly. "I'm not sure I would have considered it. Very encouraging."

"Shut it, 'Betty,'" I growled. The dog behind her gave a cautioning whine, and I reined in my temper before it made me do something stupid. "I played your damn game."

She nodded smugly. "Your reward for winning the game is to ask a single question. I will answer honestly and frankly."

"Right. Because we both know that you totally aren't a sadistic sociopath who enjoys human suffering. Where's my dad?"

She scowled at my comment but nodded. "Ah, yes. A predictable question, I suppose. Your father is here, in Tranquility Lane. He is quite safe, though he can no longer, aheh, hound me with his incessant questions."

My eyes shot to the dog at my side. "You twisted little bitch… Change him back!"

"Were I you, I'd be more concerned with myself at the moment," she said pleasantly.

"I'm done, Braun. I'm done playing. Just let us out."

"Not until we're finished with my game."

"No more games, Braun."

"The once again, we find ourselves at an impasse. How disappointing." She glared at me like I was a bug stuck under her polished leather pumps.

I don't know how I didn't just haul off and punch Braun again. Just thinking about it now, I still get pissed at her… Him. Braun. Whatever.

Dad sat in the flowers, doing his utmost to express doggy discontent. I patted him behind the ears and muttered, "Don't worry, Dad. I'll get us out." He whined, and pressed against my hand. "No matter what."

***

There are days I consider finally "pulling the plug," as it were, and putting a permanent end to both this simulation, and my life.

That is the reason I requested installation of General Chases' Chinese invasion program, after all. By disabling the safety protocols, I have ensured that each subject in Vault 112 will physically die if their in-simulation avatars are killed.

Real-world death. End of simulation. The perfect failsafe.

At least, it would have been, if not for my own misjudgment. I knew, when the simulation first went online, that the secondary safeties, those established for all Vault-Tec and military personnel, would prevent my own real-world demise in the event of a failsafe execution. In the end, I would kill the subjects, and save myself.

I wouldn't want it any other way. Or so I thought.

It's true the failsafe would scare the living hell out of every resident in Tranquility Lane, and lead to their brutal deaths. But then what about me?

I have no ability to disable my own safety from within the simulation. And any other avatars I could create would be driven by the simulations A. I. routines, not actual living, thinking, human subjects.

Where's the fun in tormenting a machine?

And so, the release of the real-world subjects is more than they deserve, more than I could bear. They'd be dead, and I'd be left here in Trnaquility Lane, alone and tragically bored for all eternity.

I can think of nothing more unacceptable.

I sat back from the terminal, contemplating its monochrome face. Braun was a piece of work, no doubt about it. Nasty as a raider's armpit, and with absolutely no trace of human pity about him, he was the textbook definition of a sociopath.

Dammit… I toyed with a bottle, and then threw it against the wall; it made a satisfying explosion of glass as it shattered. There was no right answer in this situation. Either I bowed to Braun's wishes--and apparently, this next game would be to break up a happy marriage--and I could hope that eventually, he would tire of me… Or I could take things into my own hands.

The terminal's selection bar blinked idly on the "Chinese Invasion Failsafe" activation button. Just one keystroke, one press of the button, and I'd be done with all this trouble. Braun would have gotten his just reward. Dad and I could brick up the entrance to the Vault, leave this blasted hellhole behind, and get on with our lives.

One keystroke, and I'd be a monster.

***

"If you knew you were going to die today, what would you do?'

Mr. Rockwell looked at me over his newspaper. "Kind of a morbid question to ask, doncha think?"

"Just… Just answer the question." Mrs. Rockwell came and offered me a bit of lemonade. Dangit, why did it have to be lemonade? I was guilty enough as it was.

"Well, I guess I'd want to spend more time with my family, enjoy myself, and make sure that they were taken care of." Mr. Rockwell stroked his beard as he thought. "That answer your question, sport?"

"Kinda." I faked a sip of lemonade. "You done that today?"

"You know something I don't?" He set down his newspaper, and fixed me with a stare. "Kinda making me nervous, you know?"

"Oh… It's nothing."

***

Only one person left. I'd talked to the Rockwells, the Neusbaums, and the Simpsons. That left only Old Lady Dithers. Even then, Mr. Neusbaum had said something about her being a little touched in the head, so I wasn't all that hopeful.

She started as I walked into her kitchen. "You! I don't know you; you're not supposed to be here!"

I frowned; none of the others had had any problem with me just walking into their house. Either prewar people were really dumb or… No, that was pretty much everyone else, too. Even in Megaton, people really had no objection to me just wandering in and out of their houses, so long as I didn’t wander back out with anything of theirs. "I'm… sorry?"

Her eyes, blurry and bloodshot, twitched towards the playground in the center of the cul-de-sac, and then she yanked me inside. I stumbled as she shoved me towards a couch and then set about jerking all the curtains shut. "Don’t let him see you!"

"Who?"

"Braun!" Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. "None of this is real! Neither of us is talking to each other. It's all a dream!"

I rubbed my head where I'd hit it against the hard windowsill. "Yeah, I know."

She froze, as if not capable of understanding what I'd just said. "You… you know?"

"Yeah, I--" Halfway through my nod, I found myself covered with a furiously weeping woman. I'll be perfectly honest; in my youth, I'd always imagined that my raw animal charm and magnetism would have women throwing themselves at me. Somehow, my imagination had skipped this scenario. I patted her awkwardly on the back until the sobs subsided.

"You… you know! You have to help us! Please, just stop the suffering and pain!"

"Yeah, I read Braun's journals. Sick ****er, ain't he?"

She flinched at the name. "He calls himself Betty now. The others don't remember, but I do!"

"How do you know?" Now this, I had to hear.

"Voices? Little whispers?" If the slightly crazed lilt in her voice was any indication, she was none too stable right now. She was right, of course, even if her methods were a bit suspect.

"I want to help," I assured her, "but I need your help. What can you tell me?"

"It's Braun! He has control of the simulation, but I know he's got a backup computer in the old abandoned house." She waved her arms wildly, and I leaned out of the way to avoid getting smacked. "He doesn't like us going in there, because he's afraid we'll find it!"

Yeah, well, so much for that. And my choice was beginning to look a lot clearer, too. "I found it already." She gasped, and I fended off her arms before she could get too clutchy. "It has a way to end all of this, but… I really don’t want to do it. If I do, everyone here will die. And they'll die and not come back, like before."

She drew back, a solemn look on her face. We sat like that for a few minutes, both stewing in our thoughts. When she spoke again, it was in a hushed, tired tone, so very different from her normal, frantic patter. "Do you know how many times I have died?"

Um. "I'm guessing it's not just the one with the fence, at the ski resort?"

Mrs. Dithers shuddered. "They say that a coward dies a thousand deaths, and a hero dies but once. I've been a coward for far too long; heroism sounds nice."

***

<Stand aside, comrade, while we deal with these Imperialist dogs!> Chinese shouting mixed with the angry buzz of assault rifles. Chips of wood flew like shrapnel as bullets tore apart houses and trees alike. I made it a point of watching each and every person die, freezing them in my mind. The Rockwells died in each others' arms, Mr. Rockwell reaching up to stroke his wife's hair even as bullets streamed through the pair of them. Timmy Neusbaum was cut down as he sprinted to his house. The commandoes were ruthless, busting down doors and chasing down the Simpsons, even as they tried to flee in their car. Mrs. Dithers stood beside me in the abandoned house, watching the slaughter from the window. Slowly, she exited the terminal, hugged me, and walked out the door. A trio of commandoes were the first to notice her. She smiled, spread her arms invitingly, and fell under the withering hail of bullets. Even from here, I could see the smile on her face.

The door slammed as Betty rushed into the house, just in time to see me smash the terminal's screen with the radio. Her girly voice slipped into a much manlier voice, wrought with a strange accent. "Do you realize vot you've done?"

"Yup."

"You've triggered the failsafe!"

"Uh huh."

"Ruined everything!"

"Yessir."

"The subjects will die, and I'll be stuck here in this hell! Alone!"

"Damn straight, you psychotic son of a bitch." Ah, smugness. It's always so much more satisfying coming out of my mouth.

"You've ruined everything!" Braun's voice was strange; it kept alternating between a girly squeak and an accented baritone.

"Guess what, Braun? Playtime's over."

"It is not over!" She actually stomped her foot in rage. "It's not over until I say so! Do you understand me? I… I… I just want things to go back the way they were."

"Well, isnt' that just too bad? You've had two centuries of having your way; maybe more, if you tweaked the timescale. Now the only thing to do is for me to grab my dad, and leave you to your own private dimension. Oh, and maybe blow up the entrance, so noone can wander in here ever again."

I'd seen that expression before, but it was still a bit weird to see a look of such pure, unvarnished hatred on a little girl's face. "Go, zhen! And take your pissant father vith you!"

"The dog, right?"

Braun smirked. "Man's best friend, no? But now you've taken all my friends from me…"

Friends. Right. Nothing says friendship like laughing at somebody's impaled corpse. "And my dad?"

"Yes, yes. I'm sure he'll be find and waiting for you once you leave the simulation."

"And if I may: I'd like to ask some questions."

"I might as well," he grumbled. "I can do nozhing to you now, and you'll be zhe last human interaction I have."

"Tell me about the GECK."

"Zhe Garden of Eden Creation Kit. It was used for terraforming the world after a nuclear disaster."

"Anything?"

"Anyzhing."

"Say, clean all the water from a bay?"

"Und the ocean, as well." Braun waved a hand dismissively. "But the Tranquility simulator is much more interesting; why bother with a simple terraforming module when I can create my own world? Or could, anyvay."

"Any idea where I could find one?" Behind Braun, the door slipped open and shut again as Dad the Dog pushed through the doorway. I noted that there was no more sound of explosions and ricochets from outside, either. The program had run its course; the commandoes had vanished as abruptly as they had appeared. In their place, a doorframe, complete with a plain white door had appeared next to the slide in the playground.

"As if Vault-tec trusted that to their premier scientist," snorted Braun. "I can do nothing more to you or for you. Leave me be, ja?"

I nodded, and pushed out the door to the house. Tranquility lane was a mess. Blood spattered over shattered windows, bullet casings carpeted the ground like a new, brass grass, and the bodies lay where they fell. I spun, taking in the details, before turning to Dad. "Time to go, Dad."

The dog nodded, nosing open the door in the center circle. With a leap, he was gone. I turned, gave a jaunty, mocking salute to the girl in the window, and let myself fall through the door.

***

"God dammit…" My eyes watered in the low light of the Vault as the lid of the egg pod hissed back. The blinking emergency lights certainly weren't helping. Carefully, I eased off the chair, surprised at how numb my butt was. Then again, I had been sitting down for--I checked my pipboy--

I checked my pipboy! I just about hugged my arm, I was so glad to see that little chunk of metal.

"Ishmael!"

My life's been short, violent, harsh, and cruel. Still, there are a few moments that make it all worth it. Times that make all the rest seem pale in comparison. It's moment like this one that help me stay happy, and keep me going when the wasteland gets me down. As Dad ran up, arms stretched out for a hug, I grinned back at him, and belted him in the face.

Level up!
New Perk: Sniper. Boom! Headshot.

I regret nothiiiiiiing

[Wild Zubat]

Oh wow you actually punched him? I wanna see where this goes...

Aaaanyway... *ahem*

Remember how tall Tenpenny Tower is? Throw some stuff off of it! Maybe some weapons or food?

[Triaxx]

Or Tenpenny...

[dirtytricks]

Given Ferguson's dislike of smugness other than his own, I can see quite a messy turnout for that place should he go there. It'd be interesting to see how the ghoul situation would be handled as well. I like it!

[Balmas]

404 error: chapter not found

Today's chapter will be posted tomorrow, because I'm a lazy ass my schedule got switched from daytime, bakery packaging work, to heavy, package-slinging, safety ignoring night crew. As such, my sleep schedule has been thrown for a loop like a dreidel in a dryer.

Incidentally, who would read a Let's Play in this style of San Pedro De La Cruz, a Catholic priest who discovers an undersea city named Rapture?

[Wookieetank]

404 error: chapter not found

Today's chapter will be posted tomorrow, because I'm a lazy ass my schedule got switched from daytime, bakery packaging work, to heavy, package-slinging, safety ignoring night crew. As such, my sleep schedule has been thrown for a loop like a dreidel in a dryer.

Incidentally, who would read a Let's Play in this style of San Pedro De La Cruz, a Catholic priest who discovers an undersea city named Rapture?

I would! :smallbiggrin:

[Forum Explorer]

You know what cleans up guilt? Doing good deeds! I say we track down one of those signals asking for help and fix every problem!

[dirtytricks]

404: chapter not found???? :smalleek:

[Forum Explorer]

Incidentally, who would read a Let's Play in this style of San Pedro De La Cruz, a Catholic priest who discovers an undersea city named Rapture?

That would be pretty amazing.

[Tychris1]

You know what cleans up guilt? Doing good deeds! I say we track down one of those signals asking for help and fix every problem!

Or shoot everyone we find there and take their caps and gear. Extra loot, and the problem is solved! Win-Win situation!

[Wookieetank]

You know what cleans up guilt? Doing good deeds! I say we track down one of those signals asking for help and fix every problem!

Or shoot everyone we find there and take their caps and gear. Extra loot, and the problem is solved! Win-Win situation!

For the best of both worlds we help those who can help us and take out anyone who gets in the way/gives us lip.

[Balmas]

Hmm. I guess that means we're heading off to help the brotherhood exiles!

[Balmas]

Short chapter today.

September 8, 2277

Anger.

It's done a lot of things over the course of mankind's history. Wars have been started, families separated, and cities destroyed because of one word in the wrong spot to the wrong person.

I'd had a chance to become acquainted with anger quite a bit during my… God, was it really only three weeks? Felt so much longer. Raiders charged me, screaming their fury at the world in general. Super mutants, with their perpetual grimace, growled epithets and threats even as I cut them down. I'd felt the hot wash of Psycho as I whooped, laughed, and gurgled my way through wave after wave of murderous, psychotic monsters, and more recently, cold rage had led me to kill a man and maim another in cold blood.

Anger had held me together, in some weird, insensible way. So long as I was still chasing that trail, I couldn't give up. I still had to finish the job I'd started, and give my dad a piece of my mind. It pushed me, kept me going, drove me before it like a molerat before a super sledge.

So when that punch connected, it had nineteen years of deception and three weeks of all the fury of the wasteland behind it. Dad never stood a chance.

He stumbled back against a panel, clutching his nose. "Ishmael, what was--"

"Nope," I said, pushing forward and tucking a finger against his lips. "Shh. Shhh. Just… Listen."

He sat back against the cold steel of the central terminal, and cocked his head. "Ishmael, you just--"

Wordlessly, I covered his mouth, and indicated the Vault around us. He frowned, but looked where I pointed. Alarms flashed, their bright red light contrasting against the hard grey of the Vault. Brainbots scuttled around on whistling tracks, their childish voices made even crueler by their whispers of power failure. The constant, near-silent hum of the Vault's reactor faltered, then stuttered to a halt.

And then the pods started hissing open.

Dad eyed me, the question there on his lips. I nodded, and he went to look into the nearest one. Timmy's, if my guess was right. He was probably still warm, too. Dad must have known already, but he went through the motions of checking for a pulse, listening for breath, anything to dispel that awful suspicion in his mind.

"Do you know what that sound is?"

Dad didn't answer, instead turning to stumble towards the central console. "Pulse: Zero beats per minute, no respiration… No!"

I nodded as he looked up at me. "That sound," I said, relishing it, "is the sound of an entire Vault dying for you."

He collapsed against the panel, and I sat down next to him. "It wasn't supposed to be like this…"

"Yeah, well, I wasn't supposed to be chased into the Wasteland by the crazed stooges of the Overseer," I said bitterly, digging into my packs. "But that happened." The scotch ran down my throat like liquid moss, and I passed Dad the bottle.

He stared at the golden liquid morosely before taking a deep swig. And another… And-- I snatched the bottle away from him before he could do any more damage. I wanted him sober for this.

"You saved me," he muttered, staring mournfully at the disappearing bottle. "I was afraid I'd be trapped in there forever."

I nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"It's so good to see you but… What are you doing here?"

"Is saving your sorry ass not a good enough reason?"

He took the blow with good grace before returning to contemplating his shoes. "… I didn't expect Dr. Braun to be alive and insane. I thought I'd just find notes, or holotapes."

"Welcome to the Wasteland, Dad," I groused. "Treat it lightly, and it'll bitchslap you faster than blinking."

Dead silence. I took another mouthful of booze, and met Dad's stare. "What?"

"You… You never used to swear, Ishmael."

"You never heard me in engineering, then," I chuckled. "And it's Ferguson, now."

"Ferguson."

Why did I have such an urge to justify myself? "New name."

"Why? What was wrong with--"

"I didn't like it," I said flatly. "No one knew me, so I took the chance to be someone else." I grinned bitterly. "And guess what? It worked. Got a fan club on the radio and mercs gunning for my head."

Dammit. He was supposed to be reacting to all this, not just staring at me. "Did you at least get the information you needed?"

He shook off his stupor and nodded. "It's not entirely stable, but I'm sure that components of that technology are just what we need. What we've been missing all this time… I need to return to Rivet City. Once Madison knows about the G.E.C.K., I can get her to see that it really will work!"

He made to stand, but I yanked him back down by his pipboy. "Not so fast. I've chased you for three weeks, and I intend to get some answers before you run off and get killed by a radscorpion or one of those damn mutant bears."

Aaand, there it was. That shifty look, that steadfast refusal to look me in the eyes, and the uneasy moving from one foot to the other. I growled in a bit of frustration, and he flinched away.

"Dad? Dad!"

"You… I wanted you to be safe," he muttered. "I didn't want this for you -- A life out here in this godforsaken warzone."

"So you were going to just go gallivanting off and leave me there in the Vault?"

"You were supposed to stay put," he said, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. "You could have had a good life in the Vault."

"Jonas is dead, Dad."

"What?" He jumped a bit.

"Jonas is dead, Dad. The Overseer had his guards beat him to death."

"When? Why?"

"Well," I drawled, "As far as I can tell, it's because some guy decided he wanted to go be a hero, save the world, leave the Vault, not tell anyone, and, you know, leave his only son behind. Didn't go over too well."

He folded against the console again, head in his knees. "…I suppose it's too late to go back now, isn't it? The Overseer would likely have us shot on sight."

"Or, you know, whoever they got to do the job now, since I might have killed him on my way out."

Another strange look. At least that was some kind of reaction. "…You've changed, Ishmael."

"Ferguson. Yeah, the Wasteland will do that."

We sat there in silence, watching the brainbots scatter among the dead. Have I mentioned that I really dislike silence? It always makes me think that there's something around the corner waiting to jump me. Worse, though, is that it lets me think.

I was the first to break. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

Dad sighed heavily. "What point would there be?"

"Well, I wouldn't be living a lie, for one thing," I grunted, glaring at him. "I'd know what happened to my Mom, instead of just hearing how much she loved a scripture."

"Can you honestly say that if, when you were a child, I told you that there was an entire world outside the vault, you wouldn't want to see it? You wouldn't want to try to leave, or tell others about it?"

"Why is it your choice?" At this point, I couldn't even get it in me to be angry. Sour, sure. Bitter, cynical, sarcastic, you betcha. More than anything else though… I sighed, and popped open the little tin of Mentats in my backpack. More than anything else I was tired. The Vault brightened just a bit as I bit down on the bitter tablet. Too much Wasteland, too little Ferguson. Too many demands made on me, most because of my own stupidity.

"I was trying to protect you," came the reply. I could practically hear the disapproving snort in his voice.

"That worked well." He winced. "No, really. I mean, I'm here with half an arsenal's worth of weapons, Brotherhood power armor that I got off a twenty-foot tall super mutant, enough caps to build myself a scale model of the Capitol building… I'd say I'm doing pretty well for myself, all things considered."

"It's dangerous out here!"

"And it was dangerous in there, too. I thought we covered this bit?" I groaned, and tucked my face in my hands. "Just… Look. Dad. I can handle myself. I've survived three weeks in the Wasteland. I've killed…" I checked my pipboy, and shuddered at just how high the number had gotten. "…on average, around 23 baddies per day that wanted me dead. Whereas you… wandered into a Vault, got your ass trapped by a psychotic remnant of the old world, and had to be rescued. By me."

"Ishmael, I--"

"I am not Ishmael!" Huh. Guess I had some anger left in me after all. "Ishmael got terribly sick in the Vault. Ishmael was innocent, protected, and bored out of his skull. He was lied to about his life, his mother, his birth, his future, and as a result, he was woefully unprepared when the Overseer's guards tried to beat and shoot him when his dad buggered off! He's since been shot, blown up, stabbed, beaten, mauled, maimed, and that was by his friends! I've been so irradiated that I was glowing. I'm not human, dad!" I wrestled with my pipboy to get at the release mechanism, then tossed the writhing prosthetic in his face. "Raiders cut off my hand, Dad! I'm not… I'm not a kid anymore, Dad."

I'd expected anger. Sarcasm. Maybe even laughter, or one of those other weird coping mechanisms we have when things go drastically wrong.

I hadn't expected that look of soul-crushing heartbreak.

We must have sat like that for half an hour: me leaning against the console, him cuddling that cybernetic hand like a child who'd just lost his dog. Eventually, I eased the hand out of his deathgrip and slotted it back into the gaping hole in my wrist. "What was she like?"

"I understand that you have reason to question a good many things I've told you over the years," he admitted, "but your mother… I've never lied to you about what happened. Not once." His eyes acquired a far-off stare, as if he were seeing something other than the bleak Vault. "She died giving birth to you. It was a difficult time… She was so eager to meet you, to make a place for you in the world. If nothing else… please believe that she loved you very much."

I nodded, my mind a swirl of thoughts. If she hadn't died… how would my life be different? Twenty years… What I'd become in just three weeks was frightening. What would my life have been like if I'd started out here? Would I have even survived?

Was Dad right?

I shook the thought off, and pulled Dad to his feet. "Let's go."

He looked up, coming to himself from wherever he'd been. "Where to?"

"Well," I grinned, "We've got to get you to Rivet City!"

***

"God dammit, dad!" The shotgun roared in my hand, but the buckshot just ricocheted off the thick plating of the radscorpion. Its sting, a nasty thing as big around as my head with a taper like a railroad spike, danced forward and bashed against the thick steel armor over my chest. "I told you to wait while I grabbed my bike from Tenpenny!"

Dad dodged a swipe from a black-plated claw, before retaliating with a shot from the tiny .32 pistol. "And I said that you were a damned fool for leaving something like that lying around! Asking for someone to steal it, or get your ass shot from under you!"

"This bike is different--AUGH!" These things made no sense. Nothing this large should be able to support its own weight, let alone be quicker than I was, and powerful enough to cut through steel. My leg was on fire; I clutched at the black claw and tried to pry it off. That, in hindsight, was kind of stupid. Luckily, a point-blank shotgun blast sent chips of chitin flying off, and evoked a tortured squeal from the radscorpion. I jabbed a stimpak where it burned worst, and finished off the radscorpion with a bullet from Li'l Macintosh.

Dad was wearing down his scorpion as it tried to chase him around a phone pole. I set my feet, trying to ignore how my leg felt like it had been cut clean through, and took the shot.

*BLAM!*

***

Rivet City. Still boring, but I have to admit that it was better than wandering the Wasteland. I bit into an apple, ignoring the glare from one of the technicians in the science lab.

If the way Dad had stopped waving his arms around was any indication, he'd been able to bring Dr. Li to his way of thinking. She nodded, and nodded to a few scientists. As they started packing, Dad came back towards me.

"We need to get back to Project Purity. The computer there is our best chance to locate a G.E.C.K."

"There will still be mutants hanging around there, I imagine?"

"Probably," he said, grabbing a carrot and munching it noisily. "But we have to try, don’t we? It's too important to the people of the Wasteland to let fear stop us now." He hesitated, then drew me into a spine-cracking skull. "It's good to work with you, son."

"Yeah… About that, Dad." I pulled away, cracking my neck painfully. "It's just… I'm not helping, Dad."

"What?"

"I'll clear the Super Mutants for you, but that's it." I'd been thinking about it. On the way home, I mean. "I'm good at shooting stuff and sneaking around. I can even figure out my way around a terminal and how to patch something up, but this? This is heavy stuff. About the only thing I could do would be bash it with a wrench and hope for the best."

He contemplated me. I couldn't meet his eyes, instead pulling out my revolver and spinning the cylinder idly. He had to know; Even he couldn't be so ignorant as to not know that I was lying. As I was on the point of breaking, he nodded. "Okay. You have your own things to do, no doubt. Perhaps a fine young woman you intend to woo?"

My cheeks turned a bright shade of crimson. "D-Dad!"

"Oooh, I'm on the right track, aren't I?" He grinned, ribbing me. "You know, that Moira girl seems like she wouldn't mind. Or maybe you're thinking about dear, sweet Lucy?"

"Okay, I'm gone."

"Or maybe you go for older women," he called as I practically flew up the stairs. "Madison, my son has something to tell you!"

"See this? This is me leaving! Goodbye!"

***

*brrrtatata* Mr. Chatter chewed through the last centaur in the basement of the Memorial. I nodded, wiping bits of guts off the visor of the helmet, before hitting the intercom. "It's safe to come in now," I called.

Dad's voice, tinny through the speaker, called out, "Okay. I'll send in the scientists."

I sighed, making my way up the stairs and out the long, carpeted hallway. Dr. Li was already directing a man where to put a large steel carton, but that wasn't the interesting thing. Dad stood at the door, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. "Are you sure I can't convince you to stay?"

"You can do this, Dad," I grinned. "Remember, you're my dad; you're the man who fathered the Lone Wanderer, the hero of the Wasteland! Nothing you can't do."

He grinned, hugged me, and let me go. I tossed on my helmet, revved the engine, and was off, ignoring the tears I left on the way.

So, where to? Brotherhood outcasts? Southern stereotypes? I'd prefer to avoid the Pitt until he deals with Paradise Falls, but if y'all vote that, we can go there! Or, we could deal with little grey men.

[Wild Zubat]

For the best of both worlds we help those who can help us and take out anyone who gets in the way/gives us lip.

That's just shortsighted. Sanity is for those who haven't spent weeks in the Wasteland! It's all about having as much fun as you can before something guns you down, and what's the fun in doing anything that makes sense? Just do whatever comes to mind, whenever! Eat all the Sugar Bombs you want!

...wait, did you say aliens? Aliens are fun! Aliens are awesome! Let's go check out the aliens!

All Shoulder Slaad-ing aside, I do believe this is the first time all of the Shoulder Beings have appeared in such quick succession.

[Triaxx]

You know, for all the irritation I feel at the hopeless choice at the end, the Pitt is probably my second favorite DLC. Anchorage is first, because it's just so much fun.

Though Mothership Zeta is kind of unfair unless you're an energy weapon user, then it's just too easy.

The Lever-Action Rifle and Double Barrel Shotgun are the only reasons to install Point Lookout. There's never a reason to actually go there.

[Jermell]

Wait Brotherhood outcasts? Have we met the regular Brotherhood yet? Also when do we see DC I feel like we passed it. But my vote remains with the Outcasts. Ferguson has a moderate E weapons score right? Because otherwise Zeta is kinda rough.

[Balmas]

"We will leave our hero up at the top of his arc--Don’t worry, we'll hold him--to consider just a few things."

The radio hissed and fizzed, the signal weak here in Megaton. Still, it was worth it. I grinned, and tipped back another bottle of vodka. The room swam, a red haze flittering in and out as the chems did their joyous dance in my mind.

He was jumping into what? A lake." I just couldn't get enough of that voice: smooth, velvety, like drinking chocolate. "And lakes are made out of what? Well, maybe ice runs off of the mountains. Does it ever really warm up? No. So what he was jumping into was? Twelve degrees."

I guffawed, tossing the bottle for Wadsworth to pick up. "My body," declared the voice, "became a giant goose pimple! My eyes refused to close, because they too wanted to know what had happened!"

Thump thump thump.

I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that the rock band playing in my head would please ease up just a bit. "Waddle, get the door, please?"

Is it possible for a robot to feel resentment? It might have been the morphine coating everything with a layer of dull cotton, but I could swear there was a twinge of sarcasm in the british-tinged, "Yes, Master."

Bottles and inhalers scattered as the robot passed, leaving me to collect my thoughts. I was here. House. Yeah, that's the word for it. My eyes fell on the empty bottles and inhalers. I'd have to stock up once Doc Hoff came back. He and I were quickly becoming good friends.

"Good afternoon, Mistress!"

Mistress? I… Something told me I ought to have been worried about that, but somehow I couldn't be bothered to care.

"Oh, thank you, Wadsworth!"

I knew that voice. That interminably cheerful, bubbly, bane of my existence voice.

"Can you show me up to Ferguson, please?"

No. Don't. Shoot her! Use your flamethrower, your buzz saw, get her out!

"Of course, Mrs. Brown!"

Dammit.

Moira picked her way up the stairs like she was expecting a mine to go off. Note to self: set up some mines next time I go bending like this. "Ferguson?"

"No. I'm Santa, come to spread happiness in the Wasteland."

I grunted, hauling myself up off the bed. Or… Maybe not? Hello, floor. It's nice to meet you again, but I really have to get up now.

No?

Okay, I guess I could just lie here.

Moira, meddling witch that she was, of course, couldn't stand for that. Sure, I guess that I could sit on the bed, but don't get me wrong, Moira. I didn't want your charity anyway.

"Can we talk?"

Oy. "Not like I can stop you," I moaned. Just like I couldn't stop the room from spinning. Yes, just a minute, sir? I'd like to get off the room before I…

Oh. Never mind.

Moira, I have to say, took it amazingly well. Wiped the sick off her jumpsuit, and just sat down on the stained mattress next to me. "Is everything alright?"

"Oh, of course." Eurgh. And I was coming off the high, too. Stupid, like I was seeing everything through a layer of syrup and feeling weaker than a sick puppy. "World's gone to hell. I live in a box. Dad's off saving the world. And I have so much to do now that I've saved him. My life is peachier than an orchard in June."

She leaned into me. I let her. "You know, there are a lot of people getting worried."

"About?"

"About you, silly!" Oww… I rubbed my head where she'd bopped me, and shot her a glare. "You stay in your 'box' all day. When you do come out and, you know, talk to people, it's just to walk from here to my store. Or to that suited druggie who calls himself a doctor!"

And why was it her concern what I did? It wasn't like I had a problem, after all. Morphine wasn't a drug; hell, I'd seen my Dad use it when people were in pain! It was a treatment! And Psycho helped me shoot straight. I couldn't… I needed it to fight!

Her eyes narrowed at my lack of response. "The only thing you buy nowadays is bullets and chems. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It…" She seemed genuinely stunned. "It doesn't matter? Ferguson, I… Do you have any idea who, who you are?"

Really? Why wouldn't I know that, anyway? Not like there are a bunch of people in power armor, saving people's lives. "Uh. Yeah? Ferguson?"

"You're the Lone Wanderer!" she burst out. "I used to hear about you all the time on the radio, and I was so proud! I knew that man! He helped me to write my book!"

Well, not quite. There were a few chapters still left, but somehow I figured that wasn't her point.

"Thing is, people look up to you! You're…" She sighed, and stared me in the eyes. "You're a hero. An honest-to-god hero. And hell knows the Wasteland needs more of those…"

"I'm not." Dammit, why hadn't I gone to see that damn disc jockey already? Wasn't my life hard enough without someone making me into something I wasn't?

"Well, if you're not, you've got me and half the wasteland fooled! What was it that you said about slavery?"

"I'm not a hero! I'm a damn lunatic with a gun who's too stupid to figure out when to leave something alone! I…" Wait a damn minute… "Wait. What was it I said about slavery?"

"Hmm…" Moira put a hand on her chin, pretending to think. "Let's see, something about how if you saw any whips, chains, or bomb collars, there'd be hell to pay for the people involved? This right after you blew one slaver away and just about killed the second one?"

What. How had… That was in the middle of nowhere, and I hadn't told anyone! How the heck had that insufferable twit learned about that?

"Face it, Ferguson. You're something special. You walk into a raider's nest, and five minutes later, you're walking out with a ton of weapons and a dozen dead bodies behind ya."

Yeah. Armor, superior weaponry, and a lot of stimpaks'll do that for you.

"The Brotherhood of Steel has been doing their best to wipe out super mutants from the DC ruins. They're better armed, and they've probably got better supplies and armor. They still lose initiates and knights every day when they go on patrol. The caravaners come to Moriarty's, telling horror stories about bodies piled up, of steel power armor hacked apart and dangling in gore bags. Yet I hear that a month ago, a certain someone wandered into a super mutant ambush and wiped out four or five uglies all on his lonesome."

"Yes. And I was high off my ass at the time, and I barely survived." Really, was this so hard to understand?

"You named your weapons!"

And that was it. The red that had been slowly building behind my eyes exploded. "I get it! I'm good at killing people! Raiders, dead! Mutants, tortured! Innocents, killed because it was too hard to figure out a different way!"

WAP!

Okay. Two things. First, being sucker-punched hurts. Did I really do that to my Dad?

Second, I just got punched by Moira. Since when did she do anything?

"And innocents saved!" she grit out. "Do you have any idea how many people here in Megaton owe you their lives? Maybe you haven't noticed, but the good doctor downstairs has been a lot more busy because you've been helping people survive. At least, until you decided that you'd rather hide away and shoot up."

"And?"

The look she gave me… She didn't even look angry anymore. "What happened to you? To that kid, grinning in my store, cracking jokes about he was the king of the Vault, and how the big lightbulb outside had to be hard to change?"

"That second one was you." That's right. Deflect the question.

"Yeah, but the ceiling one was yours." Excellent. "The question stands." Dammit.

"Look, I…" What? I was having a mental breakdown? I was tired? I just wanted some time to myself? I couldn't go out? God dammit, why couldn't I find any good reasons?

"You're scared."

"Are you trying to make me angry?" Was that her game? I glared at her, and she grinned back at me.

"Anything to get a reaction. It means you're still alive in there."

Oh, that just wasn't fair.

"It's true, you know."

What was she talking about? Neurons fired, synapses connected… Oh. I snorted derisively. "What do I have to be afraid of? You all but said that I was the baddest thing out there already. Hero of thousands, slaughterer of baddies."

She seemed to hesitate, her eyes dancing to avoid mine as she sought the right words. "What… Why did you leave the Vault?"

"Well, Dad left," I admitted. "That, and the… Well, let's just say that there was no love lost between me and the Security team. The Overseer's orders were just icing on the 'let's-kill-Ishmael' cake."

I saw the little light flick on in her eyes, and cursed under my breath. And question about my name in three, two-- "So what kept you going?"

Huh? Um. I had no response for that. Not besides the obvious one, I mean. "I had to find Dad. Moriarty was being his usual tight-ass self, so I had no leads until I got to Rivet City." She nodded vaguely, but let the silence hang. "I… Well, I found him in a Vault, got him out, and back to where he needs to be. End of story."

"End of story, huh?"

"Yes. End of story."

"You're not dead, though."

"If I was," I snarked, "I'm sure that hell would be a fine place to live. I hear they have wonderful spots for murderers and thieves. Warm rooms, personal service, all the food I can eat… what's not to like?"

Oh, she tried to hide it. But the smile ate away at the tightly clenched cheeks until she was beaming like a lighthouse. "You're missing the point, Fergy."

Fergy? Dammit girl, stop laughing! My distress was not amusing!

She giggled, and wrapped her arm around me. "See, it's not end of story. You're still alive, after all. Just because your Dad is safe doesn't mean your story ends. Come on, lemme see that smile."

She groaned at my grimace. "No, a real one! Chin up, eyes forward… There we go!"

"This is uncomfortable." I felt like my face would break if I kept this awkward grin up for much longer.

"Good. That's because you haven't done it in too long, and I'm going to help you get back into the habit."

"Why bother?" I let the smile drop. "It's not like there's too much in this wasteland to celebrate."

"Life seems like a good reason," she said, a grin--a real grin-- spreading across her face. "We're here. We can do what we want. And we have you. I'm not sure whether you've been able to see it, but you've made a real change in this town. Before you came, this little town was nothing. A backwater with a good location. And now?" She swept her arms around, where--if this tin box had windows--I could have seen the bustling people below. "Trade! Commerce! People that didn't want to live near an active bomb are now coming here, and they're bringing their families. Do you know, we had to expand the common room? Scavengers are trying to stack cars and build new houses!"

"And?" I wasn't seeing where this was going.

"We're rebuilding," she said quietly. "Civilization. Towns. It can only exist where there's stability. And you've already started to bring it back."

"Well, that's good. We wouldn't want to lose me, so if you don't mind, I'll just sit in here and stay safe."

Nope, she wasn't buying it. "Ferguson, we need you. And you can't let fear of the wasteland, or fear of not doing enough, keep you inside."

I groaned, and flopped back to the bed with a clanging of worn springs. "I'm not afraid of the wasteland," I insisted.

"Then what are you afraid of?"

Oh, damn. Not this question. The images came too quickly for me to banish them: raiders blown apart, their bodies pinwheeling away from my shotgun; super mutants ripped to bloody yellow chunks by a demon in power armor; Chinese commandoes blasting apart a suburb; the nightmarish face in the mirror.

"Me."

***

The Wasteland peeled past me as I piloted the Explorer down the familiar path towards Rivet City. The freshly repainted motorcycle was nothing if not loud, its thunderous roar echoing back and drowning out the ping-pang of raiders taking potshots at me. I left them shouting their empty threats, though. With this beastie, anything I couldn’t outgun, I could always outrun.

Last night… It had been a bit of a blur. I remembered tears, and more than a bit of hugging. A dark, wary corner of me was drawing a suspicious blank over how long Moira had stayed.

Still, I remembered one thing very clearly…

"What is this?" The thing was enormous, like someone had pasted two bottlecaps together into one huge, purple lozenge. "Am I supposed to eat it, or throw it at my enemies? Could squash a mutie with this thing!"

"I've been saving it for a while," she admitted. "Got it off the good Druggie Hoff. Careful!" She lunged, catching it before it could escape through a loose bit of sheet-metal flooring. "It's called coldturkene. Powerful. Pre-war stuff. I read they gave it to soldiers to keep them from getting too hooked on combat drugs."

"Soldiers hooked on drugs? Oh, that'd never happen." Sarcasm. Never gets old.

"I'm sure." The jumpsuited woman pressed the pill into my hand again, and closed my fingers around it. "I'm not saying that you have to take it. But I know that these drugs you're taking? They aren't you. I've seen you, and you're better than that."

Even now, the pill jingled in the little mason jar I'd scavenged to hold my drugs. But did I want it?

See, the problem with drugs is that they're really attractive. Like, save your life kind of thing. There aren't any words to describe it for someone who hasn't tried it. Which, of course, means that I have to try.

Imagine, if you will, that you are God. Yeah, yeah. Pretentious, I know, but it's the best way I can think of to describe it. People can't hurt you; bullets bounce off like so much dry paper, and knives skitter across your armor like frightened insects. You know everything; you could count the overgrown, waxy hairs on the terrified raiders even as they disintegrate under your wrath. Lightning shoots from your gun, striking terror into any who see you and death into those you look at.

This is you on drugs.

Kind of scary, isn't it?

I was amazing when that rush coursed through me. Nothing could stop me, hurt me, or do anything but piss me off. Mutants ran scared from me, Mr. Chatter, and the sound of my laughter. Locks just fell open like so much wet paper, like they had waited two centuries just for me. Everything was bright and brilliant, and I could talk anyone into doing what I wanted. Hell, I could talk a super mutant into drowning itself if I wanted to. I had no fear, no regrets.

And then they wore off, leaving me dull. Weak. Stupid. And scared out of my mind until I filled myself with more of that beautiful mason jar of courage. I… I couldn't leave that behind. They helped me, made me more than I was by myself.

My pipboy ding-dinged helpfully, and I obediently carved a path off the familiar rubble onto the more rugged dirt-and-rock flavor of the rest of the Wasteland. Wherever this radio signal was taking me, it can't have been far. My EFS had been pointing south ever since I left Megaton, but now the little arrow had shifted towards the West.

And I had to give Moira credit. It really did feel good to get out of the house again.

"See, you have to ask yourself what you're doing," she'd said, "and compare it to what makes you happy." The look of disgust as she surveyed the inches-deep layer of accumulated refuse in the house could not have been more pointed if it had been tipped with a spear. "You… well, you stopped getting out there. Stopped helping."

Great. Now she was a psychologist. "So, if I get out, and start getting shot up again, that'll make me feel better?"

"It isn't the getting shot up," she chuckled. "It's the helping others. Doesn't it give you a good feeling, a warmth inside, to know that the world is better for you?"

"Mmm… No, I think you're talking about mirelurk meat. Warms you right up, especially when you roast it in whisk--" She shoved me, and I giggled.

SPINK! The bullet slammed into my chest like a sledgehammer, knocking me out of my reverie and almost off the motorcycle. Raiders!

Okay. So maybe driving a vehicle that was noisier than a full-auto machine gun into unfamiliar territory wasn't the smartest idea. I bellowed -- as much pain as rage -- and yanked the motorcycle around the edge of a building, hopping off before it even stopped moving.

There were three of them. Nasty thugs, with armor so spiky you half expected them to shred each other every time they moved. The one with the heavy, reinforced revolver sprinted around the corner and met my shishkebab coming the other way. Her unholy squeal filled the flat air, like a cat being torn in half.

…Considering how far she dug herself onto my sword, perhaps that metaphor isn't that bad, either.

I did my best to ignore the acrid smell of burning flesh as the raider collapsed, yanking the sword from my hand. No time to wiggle it free. I could already hear her two buddies pounding towards me.

"I'm gonna make sure you're breathing when I skin you!"

Why do people always say stuff like that? Is it supposed to make me want to stay? I paused, grinning at them and winging a small sphere at them. "Catch!"

The lead raider, a specimen for which the term hideous must have been invented, obligingly reached out and snagged it. I grinned as he bent to look at it. The realization hit him at about the same time as the grenade exploded, shredding him and painting his companion across the wall.

Really, this was almost too easy. I jammed a stimpak into the armor's health feed, and yanked my shishkebab out of the burning woman's corpse. Maybe I shouldn't use this sword as often. It was only through a small miracle that the cache of bullets on her body hadn't exploded. Caps were still good, though.

"Please…."

There wasn't much force behind the wet gurgley voice, like I was listening to a river rolling small pebbles from far away. I guess I hadn't killed all the raiders.

Or perhaps a better way to say it is that I hadn't been clean about it. The last raider lay in a pile of blood, organs, and shattered concrete. A chunk of rebar had split off the wall, pinning him like a radroach, but the real problem was the grenade. It was like a great ice-cream scoop had come down and taken a chunk out of his side.

No, bad stomach. I needed that food, and I'd be damned if I lost any of it because of nausea.

The raider was dead already. It was just taking a while for his body to figure it out. His eyes--pardon, eye-- begged me for help, to tell him that he'd live, that his side wasn’t really caved in like a squashed tomato.

Well, at least I could do one thing… Silently, I jabbed a stick of morphine into his side, and let the raider die in numb contentment. And people say I never do anything nice.

***

"Dammit, dammit!" BLAM! "Dammit!" If I'd known that the subway tunnel would exit out into a war-zone, I'd have walked a bit more slowly. Metal wasps stung the wall around me as I popped a smoking fusion cell out of Harkness's rifle. It was the only thing with the pop to punch through muties reliably.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" The red-and-black Outcast's helmet muffled his voice considerably, but I could still hear the exasperation loud and clear as his minigun spat a fiery stream of death. Downrange, a mutant screamed as the bullets chewed his arm off.

"You'll forgive me for saving your life," I growled. "Or was it coincidence that y'all started winning as soon as I showed up? Saving the best to impress the locals?" I winced as a brutish mutant swung a huge hammer, caving in a bright red suit of power armor. Even if the guy inside was still alive, he wouldn't be for long. You don't walk away from a broken back like that.

"GAH!" Pain. Excruciating, like someone was holding a flamethrower against my back. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. All I could do was sit, praying that if the sneaky bastard of a mutant was going to kill me, he'd do it quickly.

I waited… And then with a draconic roar, the Outcast swept his minigun over the mutant like a giant wand of pain and splattery death.

Ew. I think I got mutant stuck in my visor.

You know what? I'm starting to run out of inventive ways of saying "Mutant go boom." And think of how dense the prose would get if I did it for every single raider, radroach, and super mutant that I killed. So instead of telling you about the dozen mutants of varying size, armament, and difficulty, let's just summarize it with this:

Mutants go "Aaaargh!" Gun goes TSEEEW. Mutants go sizzle-sizzle-melt all over the heavily irradiated barrels.

***

"I gotta say, you aren't what I expected."

Minigun-dude looked up from polishing his helmet. "What d'you mean?"

I rolled over a mutant so I could get at the clip of assault rifle ammo clutched in its hands. "Well, you're Outcasts, right?"

"Yeah, that's what Casdin said." The balding black man set aside his minigun and brought out a bottle of whiskey. "Figured that since they called us Outcasts, we might as well keep the name."

Yeah, I'd heard the story. Instead of sticking around with the Brotherhood of Steel--

Brotherhood of Steel.

Damn. I haven't told you about them, have I?

Well, I'll make it quick. Big building, about halfway between Megaton and Rivet City. Turrets every fifty yards, robots that shoot missiles, big guys in big suits with big guns. Real high tech ****. I haven't figured a way in, yet, but I think Dr. Li mentioned something about them guarding Project Purity while Dad was there, but then they had to leave when he left.

Yet another example of my dad's brilliance screwing up somebody else's life, I guess.

Anyway, from what I could piece together, the Brotherhood was supposed to be these big superheroes of the Wasteland. I'd see patrols fighting super mutants, and occasionally lend some bullets to their cause. More often than not, though, I'd find ex-patrols: bits of smashed armor, bent laser rifles, a few discarded empty cells. Too many mutants, not enough trained soldiers.

The Outcasts, from what I understood, were a splinter cell. Said "Screw you and your wasteland; we want to hoard technology." From a certain point of view, I guess I appreciated that. Sanctity of life, desire to save something from the past, all that jazz.

More often than not, though, they pissed me off. More interested in collecting laser rifles, power armor, and scrap metal than in actually using it. "Move along, Local," and all that jazz. I almost imagined that they had an armory of weapons just sitting there and looking pretty in their isolated base, calling out, "Take me! I'm good at killing mutants!"

"You don't act like most Outcasts," I muttered, eying the bottle.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You don’t have a stick up your rear long enough to act as a stilt. Issat bourbon?"

He tried to resist the laughter, but it came bubbling up anyway, filling the courtyard with a sweet, chocolate music. "Alexandria's finest!" I accepted the bottle and took a careful swig. Warmth filled me, a line of fire tracing its way down my throat.

"If that's Alexandria's finest," I coughed, "I'd hate to see what its worst is."

"Not a whiskey fan, huh?" He carefully screwed the lid back onto the dirty glass bottle, and tucked it away.

"Oh, I love whiskey. Makes great motorcycle fuel."

Oh, I was loving that laugh. More people should be able to laugh like that, a wonderful, belly-busting rolling chuckle. If you know a more pleasant person to laugh with, please tell me, and I'll be sure not to kill him.

"Yeah. You might say that we're the oddballs," he admitted, coming down from his high. "The freakshows, the ones too prickly for even the mighty Casdin to handle."

Huh. Being nice was considered prickly?

"But I'm afraid I have to ask you what you're even doing here." I watched enviously as he hefted the minigun like it was a toy. Man, what I wouldn't do to be able to do that; as it was, all too often I found myself drained after running around with just my rifle, which was kind of funny considering just how much crap I drag around with me every…

Oh. He was still waiting.

"I heard your broadcast," I said bluntly. "Needed something to do, figured that this was as good a thing as any."

"How? That signal was on priority--" I could almost see the gears grinding as he looked me over once more. "Oooh… You have one of those fancy wrist computers."

And there it was. That lovely technophilic greed. "Yes. Yes, I do. And no, you can't have it."

"Relax. I don't want it." Was he lying? I tried to look him in the eyes, but he went and put on his visor. Cheater. "It does mean that you should probably talk to Protector McGraw."

Well, I'd done my part. I'd helped, and if worst came to worst, I could probably outgun him, and grab his things before I ran off.

God, did I really just think that?

"And where is this protector McGraw?

***

The little freight elevator rumbled and groaned, like a hungry monster trying to swallow its power-armored victim.

Dammit. My brain needs to think up some less morbid metaphors.

A voice floated up the elevator shaft. "No, I don't like it either." Was that a ghoul's voice? So gravelly, like the speaker was in the first stages of radiation poisoning. "But those are McGraw's orders, so I don't want any complaints."

With a crunch, the open metal box touched the bottom of the shaft, and I was met with the pointy end of a strange energy rifle. "Alright, local," grunted the gravelly voice from inside its power armor. "Keep your weapons holstered, your hands to yourself, and your mouth shut."

Nice welcoming committee. "Are you this polite to your friends, or am I just lucky?"

The pulse rifle lowered, and the man grunted. "I swear, if McGraw didn't want to talk to you, you'd be ash."

Well, crap. This went downhill fast. Li'l Macintosh probably had enough punch to get through that armor, but I was running out of .44 slugs more quickly than I liked. Maybe if I took some psycho, and used that sledge I picked off the mutant outsi-- Oh. Never mind.

Protector McGraw, as it turned out, was further in. Cables trailed across the floor from one door to the next, like an insane spider had been appointed to design the power supply. I counted at least two turrets, plus more power armor and guns than if I really felt comfortable around.

More than anything else, though, I saw it. The red light of the computer panels shone on its smooth curves, making it glow like a demon.

Nope. Not going there. I turned around, found a bench, and popped out the bottle full of happy. As sweet morphine made everything go away, a voice drifted across my mind.

"What's wrong with him? Like he's never seen a simulation pod before…"


As I write, it's hard to resist the temptation to go off the rails just a bit for the story's sake. As such, I have a question.

Which would you rather read? A story based loosely off the events of Fallout 3, with new characters, backstory, etc? Or something that sticks more closely to the actual events of the game?

[Triaxx]

Would yoube surprised if I said both?

[Balmas]

Would yoube surprised if I said both?

Nope. A bit disgruntled at how little if helps resolve the question, but not surprised. :smalltongue:

[Wookieetank]

Mutants go "Aaaargh!" Gun goes TSEEEW. Mutants go sizzle-sizzle-melt all over the heavily irradiated barrels.
What does the fox say? ;)

Love it! :smallbiggrin:


Which would you rather read? A story based loosely off the events of Fallout 3, with new characters, backstory, etc? Or something that sticks more closely to the actual events of the game?

I've been greatly enjoying how you've been doing things thus far, so I guess option 1 since that seems to be what you're doing already. Although instead of new characters, you could just keep on with your alternate/expanded interpretations of characters that are already in the game.

[Sharoth]

I suggest going that way! ~points in two different directions~

[Triaxx]

Well, they both sound interesting. I'm rather enjoying the adventures of Ferguson, so finish that first.

[Balmas]

Well, they both sound interesting. I'm rather enjoying the adventures of Ferguson, so finish that first.


I've been greatly enjoying how you've been doing things thus far, so I guess option 1 since that seems to be what you're doing already. Although instead of new characters, you could just keep on with your alternate/expanded interpretations of characters that are already in the game.

Perhaps I should have phrased that more clearly. Ferguson and his adventures will continue. I have no plans of stopping before it's story appropriate. (For now, that looks like after wiping out the Enclave mobile base, etc.) I was just wondering whether you'd prefer me to build up the world, or stick to what happens.


I suggest going that way! ~points in two different directions~

Thank you, Mr. C. Cat.

[Forum Explorer]

I wouldn't mind if you built up the world a little bit more then the games do.

[Tychris1]

Great update, as always. I certainly would like the looser interpretation of the game more then the by the book method.

"Hey, pal, grow some balls! Get in there and be a man for once! You see these guys? They have STUFF! Stuff we want! You know what else they have? Stuff that will kill us in a horrible horrible fashion if we don't get these minions to like us. What better way then to cozy up with their brain-in-a-jar leader? Heck, we might even be able to overthrow this place and take over if their glorious leader really is not among us in flesh and blood. Of course you'd have to hunker down for a bit if you want to take this place over and sacrifice a bit of freedom, but in exchange you get a group of tenacious ruthless incredibly armed thugs who look badass! Quid pro quo."

"Heeeeeeey there buddy. Just wanted to remind you we're on the same side! You and me, together forever! Chaotic Evil all the way, am I right? Anyway, so I was thinking, these Outcasts are pretty cool. They look pretty cool, have pretty cool guns, and have a pretty cool name on top of that. Outcasts! Just rolls right off the.... whatever you have for a tongue, doesn't it? Now, don't we want to be a badass cool guy mcfly in Red and Black power armor toting a big gun with crazy explosives everywhere and the blood and guts of raiders and mutants alike flowing around us? Pure anarchy setting in as we stomp over everything in the wasteland with a band of vicious tech-whores? All of this could be ours, if the hunk of meat took over. Now doesn't that sound like a good plan? Now, why don't you be a nice Slaad, and back my plan up, eh?"

[Jermell]

I guess since someone already took good I can be Law. My profile picture kinda gives that vibe anyway.

There's nothing good that can come of this Enclave seeking to destroy project purity. Purity must be protected at all costs as the single, best hope of restoring some sense of order to the wastes. Also get to know these Brotherhood guys like seriously why havn't you been to the tower you can kill a friggin behemoth there it's awesome! *ahem* I mean slay the beast and restore order to the land and yadda yadda

Maybe I should add a neutral perspective too

[Forum Explorer]

I think it's time for Good Angel to speak up:

Don't slaughter any of the Outcasts!


Well that seems simple enough. :smallwink:

[dirtytricks]

You have talent, dude, run with it. Ferguson shouldn't be kept on Bethesda's leash at this point and neither should you.

[Balmas]

This one is more of an addendum to the last one than an actual chapter, due to how I've chosen to break things up. Worry not, content will come soon.

Grey.

Dear sweet Jesus, tell me they didn't! It'd be just like a bunch of technophilic raiders to shove someone into a pod to figure out what was inside it. Dammit, I didn't want to go back to Tranquility Lane. I did that often enough already, when the drugs wore off and the nightmares crept in.

I swung out, and my panicked spasms sent me tumbling off the makeshift medical bench like a sack of potatoes. An uncoordinated, stupid sack of potatoes. Actually, add drunk and in pain to that list.

Floor, my old nemesis. We meet again.

"Good to see you up," came a swarthy voice behind me. Oh, that voice. Older. Manly. Confident, like the person in question had no doubts that he was in charge because he was the best damn person for the job. "Though in your case, it seems that 'up' is relative."

Smug. Yeah, we were going to get along, this voice and I. "How's about you help me up, instead of just making snide remarks?" Jeez, show up to help someone, and they let you wallow on the floor. What was this world coming to?

The man chuckled, and the world tilted the right way up. "So this is the man that Morill thinks can open our door…" My fogged vision solidified, revealing a man in--surprise, surprise--a worn suit of black-and-red power armor. "When Defender Sibley told me that our new best hope was outside, I kind of expected less frothing at the mouth, raving about psychotic little girls…"

"Psychotic little girls are scary," I grunted, focusing on the man's face. If he weren't so cleaned up, he might even pass for an older version of me. Same beard, same orange hair… His were more neatly trimmed, though, probably to fit more easily in a power helmet.

"…I'll just take your word for it on that one," he said, cracking a small grin. "I'm Protector McGraw, and I'm the ranking officer at this outpost."

"Okay," I said, clutching my forehead. Oh, god. Next time, let's make sure to avoid morphine and alcohol; hangovers just don't mix with the spike of sensitivity when painkillers wear off. "Just… Gimme a minute."

The bench sagged noticeably as the Protector sat down next to me. The banks of computers in the next room hummed in the background, a quiet reminder that there was a round monster in the wings, just waiting for its chance to devour me.

…I wasn't getting out of this, was I? I mean, yeah, I could have just shot off back to Megaton, but what kind of impression would that leave? Big, badass kid, walking around in power armor, kills mutants without breaking a sweat, but is scared off by a simulation pod.

Dear god, was I actually starting to believe my own overblown reputation?

"Alright," I said, pushing away the thought with a shudder. "Let's talk shop."

"Wonderful," the big man said, clapping his gauntlets together.

"Now, you want something from me. Something that I have, that you don't. I'm guessing it has to do with the pipboy."

"I'm glad to see that there's a brain behind all the combat enhancers." Hey! I shot him a glower that would have stripped paint from metal, and he chuckled. "Yes, you have something that we need. This, as you can probably tell, is a bunker. A prewar training site, from what the scribes found in the commander's office."

"Not hearing what you need me for."

"Straight to business, huh? I can appreciate that in a man. We believe that there's a stockpile of weapons and armor here, but it's behind a locked door."

Really, was I the only person who'd ever tried using anything other than a key to open a door? After two hundred years, you'd think that more locks would have been cracked. "I can do locks."

The redhead cracked an easy smile. "Not like this one, you can't. We've tried everything short of a Fat Man to get it open."

Oh, good gravy. My mind painted a picture of laser rifles, gatling lasers, plasma rifles, and miniguns all trained on one defenseless door. "And you wonder why the lock won't open?" With all the crap they were throwing at it, it'd probably melted solid!

"The only reason we didn't try the blast door was because those bombs are incredibly expensive," he said, a dark, serious tone in his voice. "That door must have been designed to defend against a nuclear bomb, because nothing less is getting through by force. Luckily, we won't need to."

Joy. "Pipboy?"

"Yup." He nodded, and gestured towards the wall of super computers in the same room as the simulation pod. Come to think of it, they looked kind of like the override termina--

Nope. Not going there. Bad thoughts can just stay the hell away.

Anyway. Where was I? Right.

He nodded towards the simulation pod. "We believe that the armory will open for someone who passes the training simulation."

My ears perked up at that. Armory sounded good. Armories had weapons, and I liked weapons. You can never have too many things that go bang. "And you need a Pipboy to run it? Or do you not want to risk men going in?"

He looked away. Not good. "A bit of both. I won't lie. It's going to be dangerous. Combat simulation, safeties disengaged. You die in the simulation, you'll suffer massive cardiac failure in reality."

Okay, let's just stop here and ponder that. Somebody had to design this pod, right? Way back when, somebody said, "Let's make a training simulator to get soldiers ready for the front lines." All good. Training helps, keeps people alive. But then someone said, "Well, let's make sure that the soldiers take it seriously. Make it so that if they die in the sim, they die in real life."

Yes. Wonderful design feature there, kids. Let's kill the troops before they even get to the front lines. Just another stunning example of the prewar mentality that led me here.

Then again, since I'm probably about to go in there, I'm not sure I'm the best example of sanity.

"Well then," I said, eyeing the machine, "what could possibly persuade me to go in there?"

"It's worse out here than in there?" Sure. Guys in power armor, tons of raiders, and enough radiation to turn a mutant green. What's not to like? "In addition, we'd allow you the first pick of whatever is in the vault."

Okay, now I knew something was up. "This is just the silly, suspicious side of me talking," I said slowly, "but unless you guys just happened to steal a bunch of power armor from actual Outcasts, aren't you the group whose entire schtick is to hoard technology?"

"Some technology is better than none," he admonished. "And you're the best shot we have."

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the apex of Wasteland science. Grab a random stranger, shove him in a pod and tell him he's the last, best hope of their kind.

"Alright, I'll do it."

***

Damn me, no I wouldn't. The Protector was nice, Morill was friendly, but the person who was in charge of getting me in and out was an *******. I sat in the corner, slowly stripping off my power armor and trying to avoid looking at the simulation pod.

"Come on," snapped the woman at the control panel. "I don't have all day. The Protector wants you in, so let's get you in!" Specialist Olin would have fit right in at a strict schoolhouse. With her austere robes, and the tight, silver bun in her hair, I half expected her to whip out a yardstick and start beating knuckles.

Then again, seeing as how even McGraw seemed to be scared of her, maybe she'd done just that at some point before.

"You've waited for how long, already?" The neural interface suit that she gave me had far too many connection points, in my own educated opinion. Electrodes sucked onto my temples like twin leeches, the gloves had wires pricking into my skin, and the entire thing felt like it was two sizes too small. "Not like five minutes will make a difference."

"It's five minutes closer to you getting out of my sight," she sneered, looking over my things. "And once you die, I'll be able to redistribute your tech to someone who can actually use it."

Bitch.

Now that I got closer to the pod, I could tell that it wasn't quite identical to the ones in Tranquility Lane. The pod whined open, each panel hissing as if retracting into the sides of the machine was an accomplishment. Say what you will about Vault-tec, they made a damn good bomb shelter, and it kept the things inside safe. This bunker hadn't done so well.

At least the chair was comfy. I poked at it, making sure that all of my things were neatly stacked in the corner, before hopping up. "Touch my rifle, and I'll vaporize you." I saw her roll her eyes as the pod sealed itself seamlessly around me. The pod flashed white, and the world dropped away.

***

That's actually a very good choice of words. The ground dropped out from under my feet, and for one, sickening moment, I swear that my stomach was trying to invade my brain. I drew in a breath to scream, only for the crushing ground to drive it out in a gush of pain. A man's shout came from above me, but that didn't matter; I was too busy dying to care.

Off to a brilliant start already.

Level up! New Perk: Cyborg, level 2.
Skill Note: Small Guns level 100

[Triaxx]

Awesome as usual. Can we get a screenshot of his stats?

[Balmas]

Awesome as usual. Can we get a screenshot of his stats?

Ask, and ye shall receive. :smallbiggrin:


Going into the pod:
http://i.imgur.com/LmdRaFx.jpg
http://i.imgur.com/DzKVRk0.png

After coming home:
http://i.imgur.com/Qku7tFa.jpg

[Triaxx]

Awesome. What was boosting his repair?

[Balmas]

His tool kit. You have the option of creating both toolkits and first aid kits. They give a +10 bonus to Repair and Medicine, respectively.

So really, if I'd planned properly, I would have spent less skill points in that skill, and just used a repair kit to boost it to 100.

[Balmas]

First off: I'm not dead! I'm still playing, I'm still writing. It's just been at a greatly reduced rate due to my new, full-time job. Minimum wage isn't the best, but so long as the hours are good, I can manage.

And now, the next update!

Pain.

Hot, searing pain, running down my spine. It felt like I'd been branded and then plunged into a tub full of ice within the same two seconds. Every breath came grudgingly, with a wet little gurgle. Not good.

I tried to sit up, and whimpered as agony shot through my chest. Ribcages weren't supposed to bend like that. They aren't supposed to bend at all!

"Hang on, kid! I'm coming!"

Not like I'm going anywhere. I'd heard that rib shatter, and the shards were still fighting with my lung for space.

My limited field of view registered white, white, and greyish white. Such a stunning backdrop. Was it really worth it? Needed some color if I was going to stick around.

Ah, there it was. Yet even as the dark grey boots stomped into my field of view, I couldn't help feeling that it just wasn't worth it. After all, I was…

I was…

Tired.

***

Rocks.

I blinked, and tried to sit up, but a mottled grey gauntlet pressed me back against the icy ground.

"Easy. You had a hell of a landing there. Take it easy."

The glove pulled back, allowing me to easy my way onto my side. Somebody -- probably the person tending me now -- had bandaged me up, and I could see a few empty stimpaks tossed aside near a tattered parachute. I shivered, the frigid breeze stealing any thoughts I could have formed almost as well as it did my breath

"What happened?"

I felt the man raise me into a sitting position, and he pushed a bundle into my hands. Cloth, with hardened plates. Armor? Felt a lot like the stuff I pulled off of Talon mercs, but better. Newer. Not as many bullet holes patched.

"Near as I can tell, your parachute failed."

"Near as you can tell."

"Well, the screaming and plummeting were pretty good clues."

Fair enough. Also, screw you too. "Soooo… Where the hell are we?" I scrubbed my arms together to try to get some feeling back into them.

"Put on your armor," he grunted. "It's got insulation. And that fall must have hit you harder than I thought."

"Death'll do that."

I swear, he smirked at that. "Well, we ain't out of it yet. Come on, up you come. I'm Benjamin. Or did you forget that too?"

http://i.imgur.com/p8ubmZK.jpg

Benji, as he preferred to be called, clammed up after that. Wouldn't say a word until I figured out which end of the suit he'd given me was up, and I'd safely tucked my head into the balaclava sewn into the helmet.

"Never seen a man have so much trouble with a helmet," he grumbled. "With all the whining you were making, I half expected the Reds to shoot us, just to get you to shut up."

Right. Olin had said something about Alaska. Alaska, communists, combat simulation. Combat. I can do this. "So, what'd I miss?"

"Well, since no-one showed up while I was hauling your sorry ass out of a hole in the snow, I'm guessing the commies didn't see us on our way in." Benji tossed a heavy pistol at me, and I scrambled to grab it. Just like the armor, it was brand new. No two-hundred-year-old pistol, this. I ran my fingers over the smooth finish, and pocketed the spare clips of ammo he handed me. "You have your equipment, so I'll let you make the call whether to go in quiet or guns blazing."

"My equipment is a pistol? What, did the United States run out of real guns?"

"Can that traitor talk," he barked, passing me a knife with a wickedly spiked handle. "We'll meet at the rendezvous point just like we planned. Then we'll use these explosives to blow those guns to hell! …Oh, sweet Christ. You don't remember that, either, do you?"

"Nope. Blank slate."

"Hell… Look. Go… that way. Kill any commies you meet. Get to…" He seized my Pipboy and fiddled with it. "…This point. We'll go from there."

"Get in, kill 'em, meet up. Simple enough."

He grinned, and clapped me on the shoulder. "There we go! Good luck, soldier!"

"And how're you… Oh." The cold wind bit at me as he leaped onto the cliff and started to climb with an agility that should have been impossible in this climate. I mean, I was starting to lose sensation in my hands already, and I'd only been here for five minutes!

The snow crunched as I moved, hugging the walls as much for cover as for shelter from the wind. Let me tell you something about the Wasteland: There's no snow. Not here, at least, and not like I'd seen in those old, crackling books in the Vault. You got howling storms, occasionally, and days so hot that I half wanted to start peeling my skin off myself and save the sun the trouble. I'd never felt cold like this, though. It seeped into every bit of exposed skin, biting worse than any bullet, and drained me like nothing else I could imagine. A cold-weather person I am not.

Still… I paused, kicking a jagged rock over the edge of the cliff. The sky around here was worth it. Instead of the pale, almost green of the wasteland, it was the purest, noble blue I could have wished for. If I weren't so sure I'd die of hypothermia if I didn't keep moving, I might have stayed just to look at it.

A large metal sign jutted out from the rock face like a wound in the world. PROPERTY: U.S. ARMY, it proclaimed in faded stencil. NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. HAZARDOUS CONDITIONS.

No, really? The weather, the sheer cliff face dropping off to oblivion? This place was my own personal bit of heaven, wasn't--

I bit off my own sarcastic mental commentary and flattened myself against the cliff face as a pair of grey, furry boots wandered into view. "<Is anybody there?>"

Nope. Nobody here but us rocks.

Wait a minute. I replayed the last few seconds in my mind, and realized that the words hadn't been in english. It was like someone was translating it instantly in my head. Gibberish hit my ears, but I understood it!

I tried to think rocky thoughts as the boots moved around the corner of the sign. The man can't have been much older than myself. Four, five years, tops. He shivered, rubbing the frostbite out of his fingers, and oh god he was looking right at me.

I froze, staring right into his eyes. He looked back. Why wasn't he acting? He had a rifle, he could have… His gaze slid right past me.

"<Must have been my imagination,>" he muttered after a few tense moments, returning to looking over the small ledge he perched on. "<Higher ups say watch for capitalist pigs, I watch for capitalist pigs. Higher ups say why you no kill Americans, I say there are none to kill. Guard barrels. Why? Who will take a-->"

http://i.imgur.com/pQzbXcW.jpg

Pffft! Spatters of brain and bone fragments spun off into the void as his imagination shot a bullet cleanly through his skull.

Huh. Imagination. Not a bad name for a silenced weapon.

I sighed in relief, and sprinted towards the body. The hat probably wouldn't fit over the domed helmet, but I bet I could fit that lovely, furry grey suit under my combat armor.

Pffshzzle… Oh, that didn't sound good. I glanced up from the rocks I was picking across, just in time to see the corpse fizzling out of existence. Boots, rifle and everything that might have made my life tolerable, gone in a hiss of blue static.

Damn it all.

I stomped forward onto the concrete landing, looking for something -- anything -- that I could use. A couple crates, smashed and looted, with "U.S. Army" printed on the side, and some barrels. As the guard had said, no real reason to guard it over here.

I frowned, looking at the gadget on one of the crates. It pulsed, each heartbeat sending a little red aura spreading from its rotund bottle and dial. Truth to tell, it almost reminded me of an enormous stimpak, sans the needle. I eased a glove off, and for the first time, I felt actual warmth spreading through me.

**** it. I was bringing this with me. It can be heavy, it could be bulky, it's glow could be spotted from a mile away, and I would’t care! I'm warm!

"Hmmf!"

Okay. Maybe it was heavier than it looked.

"Nnnng! Aaargh!"

It wasn't moving.

Just out of curiosity, I yanked the crate out from under it. The small dispenser hung in the air like a fisherman's lure, obscenely defying every law of nature.

"You little orange harlot," I spat. Yes, lure me in with promises of warmth, and then leave me hanging! I almost kicked it in frustration, but decided against it. The chill wind was already taking away feelings in my legs, and kicking it would just make my toes hurt worse.

My boots crunched on the path, sending bit of loose stone skittering off the cliff face. The wind howled, whipping across the cliff like it was trying to peel the rocks off, and me with it. Cold drove its icy tendrils into me. Yet for all that, it was beautiful. The sky was blue, like in the old vault picture books, instead of the sickly green I was used to. Proud mountains shot up around me like the teeth of some majestic beast. Even though I was trying not to think too hard about how I was in some war-time training simulation, I was… I was glad to have been here.

This… This was what America was like, back before the bombs. Clean, peaceful. Quiet. Why would anyone want to end this? What was worth it?

I pushed away the oncoming rush of anger and frustration and kept creeping over the rocks. Unless someone gave me a time machine and a challenge to disprove a paradox, my getting angry wouldn't actually do any good in the here and now.

Ahead of me, a scattering of spidery catwalks trailed from one cliff face to the other in the narrow box canyon. Each and every single bit of wiry path looked like it would fall apart if I so much as sneezed on it. A bridge, hastily bolted together, hung in the gap, blown from side to side in the howling wind.

It can't be that weak of a bridge, I argued. After all, there's a soldi-- crap! I dropped back against the wall, and pulled out my gun. The one, single gun that the United States could afford to give to a commando about to infiltrate a compound full of men with machine guns.

Right. List of things to do if I get a time machine. First, stop the bombs from dropping. Second, find out whose idea this was and slap him.

Imagination puffed once, and the grey, chinese soldier dropped to the bridge in a cloud of blue static. I clambered over the rocks and towards the bridge, keeping an eye out for any signs of camouflaged grey moving against the cliff.

With the way the wind tore at my eyes, making them water, and with the snow giving me exactly six inches of visibility, it's a wonder I was able to see the soldier at all. Unfortunately, he saw me at pretty much the same time.

The grey-suited soldier spun to bring his assault rifle to bear. The canyon air filled with chatter of gunfire, the wire bridge providing no cover. I screamed as a bullet burned its way into my shoulder, and dashed for the cliff's edge. A ricochet off the bridge's railing nearly took my eye out, and I pushed a bit harder.

My heart raced as I rounded the corner and raised my automatic. His was better, though. He opened fire, and I could swear that I could feel the internal organs shutting down. Haze began to creep into edges of my vision, making it hard to aim. Imagination jittered in my hand as I squeezed the trigger as quickly as I could. Hell, I was only putting metal in the air and kind of vaguely hoping that there was a soldier in the way at some point.

"Urk!"

Yes! I grinned through the tears as the machine gun cut off, and the sound of a soldier sizzling away came to my ears. Now, if I could just sit back, and…

No! Sleeping was bad. I had to keep telling myself that, or the cold would kill me faster than the bullets. Which meant… A little part of me whimpered. Oh, that meant I had to move, didn't it?

My eyes, already blurred by the snow, refused to focus as I crawled along the rocks. That's it, Ferguson. A few more steps. You can do it. I chanted the little mantra, trying to ignore the line of red I was leaving down the path.

Salvation appeared: another of those bulbous, orange dispensers sat on a crate on the next ledge. All I had to do was survive that long.

Those last few meters… I'd like to forget them. My insides were a horrible mess, like an egg scrambled by too many bullets. Each crawling step sent needles digging through my sternum and fire racing to my brain.

And then I touched the bulb.

And it all went away. The pain, the signs that I was dying, everything. Hell, I felt like I'd just got up after a night in the Vault. Stiff, maybe, but unharmed.

For a minute, all I could do was sit there, absolutely stunned. I peeled off my armor, and there it was: my chest, whole, undamaged, and with no sign that just a few seconds before, I'd had more bullets inside my torso than inside my gun.

No, I take that back. There was a dark blotch on the inside of my armor where I'd nearly bled out. Still, for being shot full of holes…

A gust of snow reminded me that, you know, taking off your clothes in the middle of a storm isn't exactly the best idea. I hugged the little dispenser, leeching what warmth I could as I shrugged the mesh and metal plate back on.

Right. Time to take stock.

Hopelessly outnumbered? Check. Strike team of two people against… well, against an entire chinese outpost. Either the U.S. government was suicidally overconfident, or they hadn't planned on our success. If I was getting out of here, it was going to be a miracle.

Must be a Tuesday.

Underarmed? I don't think I'd had this few weapons since leaving the Vault. At least I had the armor, instead of charging down security guards when I had nothing but some pajamas and a bat.

On second thought, maybe it was a Wednesday.

I crouched against some sandbags, putting them between me and the breeze. It helped, but I was still freezing.

Vrmmm…

Huh. I turned at the humming, and spotted a thin line of red sticking over the edge of the sandbags. A sniper rifle? Here? I guess it was a good enough place to snipe from. If somebody had actually been using this, my little jaunt into simulationland would have been much shorter. Deader, too.

The whole place had a somewhat ramshackle look to it, like it had been tossed together in a day. Towering cement foundations jutted out from the rocks, linked by metal catwalks. Now and there a pipe, large enough for a super mutant to run through with room to spare, spanned the gap.

I ducked into a metal shack, peeking out the windows at the opposite cliff, with its assortment of deathtrap-ish walkways, and the blotches of grey moving on them. Too far for a pistol shot. No matter how good I was, it wasn't going to happen.

A soft hum, like that of the health dispensers and the sniper rifle, told me that there was something to use in this room. I scooped up a few softly glowing mines, checking that they weren't armed, and watched them hiss into nothingness. My Pipboy registered them, though, so I guess I could still use them. Just as soon as I figured out how.

The humming was coming from a round metal device in the corner. It looked for all the world like someone had taken a snail and flipped it on its back. "'Press down on bar,'" I read, and obediently nudged the little lever. It clicked, and a few boxes popped out of a slot. .308s. Ten millimeter slugs. A few banana clips for an assault rifle.

I grinned, and started pumping the lever for all it was worth.

Things went fairly smoothly after that. Whether or not they chinese troops saw me didn't matter much, now that I had ammo and a good weapon.

BLANG! The Chinese soldier's head burst, painting the rock behind it with blood and brain juice. His friend shouted, and began spraying bullets at me. The canyon echoed with the thunder of my rifle, and the soldier joined his comrade in the head-challenged.

I made my way through the canyon, sniping as I went. I wish I could provide you with more entertaining stuff, stories about how I almost died at every turn, but to tell the truth, nothing like that happened. Being good at hiding and being good at sniping makes things relatively easy. Just pick your battle, find a suitable rock to put between you and your enemy, and take the shot. BLANG! Another soldier hissed into blue ether, a dumb look fixed on his disappearing face.

I nodded in grim satisfaction, and pushed on. People to kill, **** to blow up, internal monologue to keep up. I'm just swamped.

***

"Somebody help me! Please, anybody! Help!"

The American soldier had had just as much of a problem with his parachute as mine. More, really. Even as I slipped into the cave, I could see his issue. The thick cable and dense mesh of his parachute had snagged on a natural opening in the rock. The soldier flailed, trying to reach the straps, but either he couldn't get to his knife, or he wasn't willing to risk the thirty foot drop.

"<Hey, look!>" A whiny smattering of Chinese drifted into the cave, and the soldier writhed even more, panic lending him new strength. "<We caught ourselves a little bird!>"

"Come on, ya Commie bastards!"

"<What'd he say?"

"<I think he said, 'Shoot me! The capitalist pigs have sent me to give you weapons!'>"

"<Yes, I think that you are correct."

"C'mon, ya cain't do this!" The solder was getting desperate, looking about wildly for anything, anyone that could keep him from becoming the local bullet depository. And then he met my eyes.

That was it. I had to do something. He didn't say anything, didn't have to. The words were written right there in his eyes.

Please.

"<American dog, in the name of the People, I execute->"

With a wordless bellow, I flung myself around the corner and stepped into VATS. In icy slow motion, I saw the bullets rip the head off one of the Chinese soldiers and knock the other off his feet. The world timed-in again, and I finished off the second soldier with a short spray of automatic fire.

Well. That was easy. For a second, I'd almost been worried.

"Boy, am ah glad to see ya," the soldier called down, sagging in his harness. "Ya got some slick moves."

"VATS helps," I said curtly. "Now, let's see about getting you down. What can you do?"

"I can just about manage breathing," he reported, after another few seconds of wriggling.

"You just keep breathing, then. Breathing is kinda vital." I sighed, looking up at the tangled nest of cord and cloth. "Not even a knife?"

"Fell out when Ah snagged," said the man wryly. "Hey!"

"Relax," I said, and scrambled to pick up the wickedly spiked knife. "Now, I'm gonna throw it again. Be ready."

***

"I said I was sorry!"

The soldier scowled. "From now on, you're not allowed to make the plans." He winced, nursing his arm.

I groaned. "I suppose I could have just let you get shot, and cleaned them up later on. Much better than breaking an arm." Seriously. Was it too much to cut me a break?

Jeffrey -- that was his name -- looked away. "…Yeah. Thanks for that." He pulled a sliver of broken box out of his armor and continued. "So, what's the plan?"

"Got me." I shrugged, and passed him the chinese assault rifle and banana clips. "Benji said tha--"

The snap of wires from above me had me on high alert in seconds. I danced to the side as a chinese commando dropped out of the ceiling in a shower of plaster. My rifle swung around to target it, only for VATS to refuse to lock on. Damn it, why did everything have to stop working at the worst of times?

Oh.

We relaxed a bit as the soldier started vaporizing, and a green arrow lit up on my EFS. A few more chunks of ceiling dribbled down, followed by a panting Sergeant Montgomery. "Damn, this place is swarming with Reds," he muttered, before looking at us. "Good to see you made it through. I almost bit it out on the cliffs."

"And Ah'm glad to see ya made it in one piece," Jeffrey said, offering a clipped salute. How come I didn't get a salute?

"Didn't know the Reds were so handy with a sniper rifle," the tall man grumbled, nodding at the other soldier. "What's the situation? We clear to blow the hell out of this place?"

I pulled out the three charges. "Yup. And I'm good for ammo." Jeffrey had all the assault rifle ammo, and the few microfusion cells I'd scavenged for his massive energy rifle. Seriously, that thing looked like it'd be more at home mounted on a tank, or some kind of robot.

"Alright," Benji said, his grin cutting through the dim gloom of the flourescents. "I got your six."

The wind grabbed me and all but threw me off the ledge as I opened the door. I gasped, clenching at the door and bracing against it. "Careful of the ledges," Benji snarked from behind me. "It's a hell of a fall."

"You knew about this," I accused, getting my feet under me.

"Maybe."

Very helpful. I flashed a glare at him, and made to push forward. More catwalks. Joy.

A hand on my shoulder stopped me, and I looked back questioningly at Jeffrey. The soldier made a dour face, and gestured ahead of us. "Hostiles. Incoming."

I looked ahead, and spotted the furred caps of two chinese men. "Alright. On my signal, then."

"What's the signal?"

BLANG! The sniper rifle's retort blasted through the canyon, and one of the Chinese soldiers slumped to the catwalk. I smirked as Benji cussed behind me, and pulled my scope to the next soldier.

***

Audio Log begin.

I don't know what possessed me to cross over the icy, send-you-plummeting-to-your-doom pipe. Maybe it was the glint of red dispenser in the corner of my eyes, or the slow pacing of the guard the Chinese had left there. Must not have been important, for only one guardsman to be stationed there. Maybe they just didn't know what was behind the locked door, and figured it was better to be safe.

This is Captain Zachary Lloyd, United States Army, Anchorage, Alaska security detachment!

The man on the holotape sounded like he was trying to decide between urgency and panic.

We are approximately two hours into the Chinese assault on this outpost. We are being shelled non-stop, indiscriminately! The entire base is under bombardment from the Chinese ships, and they don’t care who they hit! All accounts indicate they’ve actually killed more of their own men than ours. They… They just don't seem to care about their own troops at all!

The man sighed, seeming to think for a moment.

At this rate, the entire mountain will be a graveyard in less than an hour, and the Chinese will just move in and set up shop. God help us… God help America.

I popped the holotape out of my Pipboy and watched it dissolve into the blue garbage that I was rapidly learning to despise. Even the coffee from the machine couldn't cheer me up.

"Why are we in here?" Benji had been quiet ever since the tape started playing. Sullen, almost. "Every second we're not destroying those guns is another dozen troops dead."

Somehow, I didn't imagine that "This is a computer simulation, so it doesn't matter," would fly very well. I ran through several responses, but couldn't find any that wouldn't get me slapped or shot for insubordination. At least, I assumed pre-war folks did that. It certainly seemed to fit in with the whole "Nuke everything" mentality.

I sighed, and turned to the terminal next to where I'd found the holotape. A few scratches decorated its green-painted case, but it was still miles ahead of the rest of the scrap I'd seen in the Wasteland. It was an easy hack, though with a strange password. I wonder what "daffodils" meant to the person who programmed it.

"Lessee…" Most of the data files were nothing more than scrambled gibberish. Either this was what Chinese looked like when it was written down, or the encryption on this terminal was amazing. Only one stood out.

Well. Only one was legible, I mean.

//Begin Transcription//
34UJCNM requisition papers have been submitted for anti-air surveillance and defense systems. To make security of Eastern cliffs, I have submitted papers third time to field command. 39KJKLm18*

Making all due respect, honorable Dragoons mission that took *CH3 facility in our 3AN3! Attacks made use of Easter cliffs. KJ(*D12..++ DFK 989KK. Leaving this non-defensible is dangerous, as American attackers could make same use of Eastern cliffs. Further patrols are posted, but we outpost remain vulnerable to airborne drop tactics. 3KLJDR8-tek systems of surveillance and defense can help ensure against such vulnerable (state of being).

398KDI consider this request, sir. Re9*k of Chinese Republic.
//End Transcription.//

How the hell had this gotten onto this terminal? It sounded like the message had been sent after the Chinese took this base. And if the number of guards I'd seen were any indication, it'd been taken all too seriously. So why was this here? And why in English?

"And that's another platoon dead." Montgomery's voice dripped with anger. I didn't even need to look behind me to feel his glare drilling daggers into my helmet. "I certainly hope it was worth yer little side-trip."

"If it means we arrive with fewer bullet holes, I think it's worth checking every terminal between here and the guns," I snapped.

"The guns're that way," he snarled. "And I don't like pullin' rank, but by God, I will if you don't haul that worthless little ass back over that pipe."

Wonderful. I'd forgotten that I was still playing at soldier, and that meant ranks, orders, and all of the fun stuff that went with it. He's God, I'm the thing the private's pet beetle crapped out.

I grimaced, and flipped a lazy salute. Jeffrey frowned in the corner of my vision, and Benji turned a stunningly brilliant scarlet. He seemed pacified, at least, when I moved towards the door.

***

"There we are," Benji said, as I pumped the ammo dispenser's lever a few dozen more times. "That’s the depository."

I tucked the clips away and snatched a peek around the corner. Dear sweet God…

I'm not really sure what I'd expected to see. This entire chasm seemed to be an exercise in suspension of disbelief as well of as of steel and stone. The depository, I thought, would have been in the same style as the rest, all spindly catwalk and pre-fabricated steel cubicles. Instead, I got a fortress.

The depository loomed out of the cliff face like the tortoise of the gods. Its squat, rust orange shell was mounted with nodules full of soldiers and turrets, each one capable of ripping me apart like so much wet cardboard. The low, dirty bridge slung between our dirty steel cube and the mountainous fort jutting out of the side of the cliff looks not so much like a deathtrap as a funnel, just waiting for bullets to slice in and rip to shreds anything that made a move out there.

Yeah. I'm not even making this up. If this were a house in a friendly neighborhood, it'd be the one with the mines tucked under the doormat for the girl scouts to find.

"Did you desecrate somebody's temple in a past life?" I wondered. "Or were you so bad in this one that they decided to pull the whole Karma thing early?"

Benji ignored my barb and pulled Jeffrey aside. "Right. You've got that gauss rifle. I hope yer better at shooting it than you are at talking."

"Sir."

"You take out the turrets. We'll take care of the soldiers."

Right. I sighed, and ducked behind a barrel before lining up a shot.

I'd describe the fight that followed, but it would take a longer time to read it than it did to fight it. I mean, it could be kind of entertaining to see it from the other side. Honorable Comrade Jihm is drinking coffee with Slightly-Less-Honorable Comrade Bohb. They huddle in the congrete bunker overlooking the canyon, occasionally peeking out at the stretch of rock and steel they're supposed to be watching. Not like either of them really cares. They've got the cannons. It's only a matter of time until the capitalists give in. And besides, it's cold. Much better to simply wait around and

BLANG!
PANG
Pftftftft

The turret explodes, sending a shower of blue sparks raining down on Honorable Jihm. He sucks in breath to howl, but a sniper bullet rips his head off before it can get out. SLH Bohb decides that it would be good to duck under cover. It's not enough; an american commando, his face bare to the wind and snow, rushes around the corner of the bunker, and Bohb fades away in a spray of silenced assault rifle bullets.

See? Way too long to read.

***

"Now, be careful." Benji's gruff whisper barely hissed out from under the rumble of the guns above us. Every few seconds, the entire building shook, plaster trailing down over the narrow metal stairs and banks of supercomputers. Red paint--or maybe it was dried blood, I don't know--splashed over the walls, like the entire room had been decorated by a blind clown. The stairs trailed up to the second story in a nonsense off-spiral. Come to think of it, maybe it wasn't just the walls that had been turned over to the insane clown.

"The place is swarming with Reds," Benji continued. As if I didn't know that. Their alien gibberish drifted down to us over the metal walkways, warped by the stairs. We froze in our advance as a fur-clad trooper wandered out of a high door, and looked out at the gaping lobby. He gave a cursory look, his gaze passing over the steel stairs, the high banks of monitors and crimson walls. Any second now, he'd turn the wrong way and--

Pft!

The wall behind the trooper splattered with a second shade of red, with lovely chunks of brain highlights. I stifled a yelp, and turned to Benji. "The hell did you do that for?"

"Present from Uncle Sam," he grinned, reloading his weird assault rifle. I swear, I've never seen anything like that rifle before or since. Imagine a good gun with bits and pieces taped on to make it better. "Only good commie is one with an American bullet in his head."

A shout came from upstairs. His gun was good, only about as loud as an underwanter clap, but it , but it still made enough noise to draw attention apparently. A pair of Chinese soldiers charged out of the top door, assault rifles out. Jeffrey's gauss rifle thundered, its sound overpowering in the close quarters. One of the soldier's heads popped like an overripe melon, but the other sprayed a line of fire across my leg. I screamed, falling to one knee. Standing only made it worse, and sent me sprawling in an explosion of agony. My heart pounded a thick, sluggish beat, a stark contrast to the angry buzz of automatic fire and the gauss rifle's furious boom.

"<Kill them! Kill them all!>"

"Get out of my country, commie!"

I groaned, and started crawling for the shelter of a dense computer interface. My knee ached every time it shifted, and I could swear I felt bits of bone making a break for the surface. What I wouldn't give for a stimpak right now…

With a final stutter of assault rifle fire and a barely translated scream, the impromptu battle halted. And none too soon, either. Benji rushed over and hoisted me up. "C'mon, kid. There's a dispenser over in the next room." I nodded feebly, and leaned on him, limping away.

***

"How did you know about this?"

I picked up a grenade off the table and slowly twirled the pin in its socket. The promised dispenser had worked its magic, soothing and erasing the pains in my leg. Benjamin looked up from stuffing his pockets full of the mines from the table, before saying, "The Commies kept clustering around that corner."

Another long box of .308 bullets hopped out of the ammo dispenser as I bopped the bar down again. "And you just guessed?"

"Something like that."

Jeffrey slipped a pile of microfusion cells off the impromptu armory and into a pouch on his belt. "So what's our next move?"

"We're pretty damn close," Benji said, a grim smile on his face. "There are only two major obstacles left, and we'll be on the cliffs."

"Alright, you seem to know what's going on. Where're we headed?"

"First off is storage," he said. "Long corridors, tons of boxes to hide behind. Use them. Once we're there, we'll need to get through the armory."

"Armory is good." I flashed a grin at him. "Armory means weapons."

"You don't need more weapons." What? "You're already walking around with three rifles, a pistol, and a knife. Hell, yer a walkin' armory."

"You can never have too many guns," I sulked, looking over the weapons slung over my back. "A gun for every situation." Except for pistols. I mean, Li'l Mac could do it. I loved that little revolver, with its simple cylinder, quick shooting, and easy repair. It was the only gun that'd never failed me, but the ammo for it was just vanishingly rare.

Look at me ramble.

Benji snorted, but let it go. "Let's get moving."

***

Molly, I hope this tape gets to you, someway, somehow. I don't have a lot of time, but you need to know what happened to me.

As Benji had promised, storage fitted its name well. Corrugated metal crates were stacked floor to ceiling. Generators hissed and wheezed, tucked away in their little chainlink alcoves. The red, scarlet, and crimson of the entrance-way had shifted to a much more friendly metal-and-rivet sheeting. To tell the truth, all the narrow spaces and grey metal kind of reminded me of home.

[/i]The early reports weren't bull****. The Chinese are here. As in, they're invading Anchorage, in force, right now!

This is the real deal. It makes Pearl Harbor look like an academy exercise. I've never seen so many goddamned warships…[/i]

What Benji hadn't mentioned was that the entire storage area was set into a cliff.

No, I have no idea whose brilliant idea it was. Had the people who designed this never heard of safety in the workforce? Any misstep could send you hurtling over a cliff, never to be heard from again! It was as if the pre-war people had a fetish for horrible death in the workplace. I mean, really. Would it be too much to install something like, say, a handrail?

Sergeant Lowry has ordered the platoon to assemble in the mess in fifteen minutes.

The plan is to dig in on the cliffs, and slow the Chinese advance until the civilian contractors can evacuate.

And then… Then we hold the line for as long as we can. I talked to Durney, Ciello, and Dallas, and we all agreed. Surrender is not an option.

"There's their damn Chimera tanks…"

I looked up and risked a peek over the edge of the plate metal floor. A rush of vertigo sent me clinging back against a generator's chainlink cage, but I'd seen enough. Far, far below, a trail of soldiers ran like ants over a pencil-thick road. And… I eased onto my stomach and pointed my sniper rifle over the edge.

"Don't bother. They're out of range." Jeffrey's voice. I nodded, and looked back down the scope. In the background, the holotape I'd found on a desk played on, unheeded.

Back in Vault 101, I'd enjoyed reading. Stories of soldiers, explorers and more, taming a new world, or perhaps traveling to the stars. Even now, when I was scavving the D.C. ruins, if 3-Dog's station started to play one of those radio stories about Herbert "Daring" Dashwood, I made it a point to find a safe spot to crouch down and listen for a few minutes.

I remember in one book, I'd seen a picture of something called a tank. Massive things, all metal, armor, and tread, capable of driving over a car without even noticing it was there. They launched explosives, fired machine guns, and I knew then that I'd never have one. Nothing as awesome as that could possibly exist in the confines of drab, dreary 101.

These put all that to shame.

Blue lightning crackled over a massive barrel the size of a man. A pair of gray screws, each large enough to swallow the soldiers standing next to the tank, spun, cutting the ice and shoving the tank forward with each turn. Heavy plating covered every inch, scarred with bullets and painted with a red star. As I watched, the cannon--that's the only thing it could be called--pivoted, searching for something to annihilate.

I stood up slowly, and looked at Benji. "I want one."

***

"Wouldya look at that?"

The armory, as it turned out, was not quite the bonanza of weaponry that I'd been so eagerly expecting. I wouldn't be walking out of here with any weapons, not without a forklift, or maybe a truck. See, the armory was full of bombs. These were what the guns upstairs were shooting: Shells, like bullets so wide that I could barely fit my arms around them. Racks bolted together from thick, red I-beams lined the walls and filled the center of the room.

At present, though, most of the padded cradles built into the racks were empty. Benji grinned, and whacked a rack, nodding to the single bomb remaining. "If we had waited another week or so, we might not have even needed to blow up the guns!"

Yeah. Fun. I huffed, and looked away from the definitely-not-portable shells.

***

Audio log begin.

This is captain Zachary Lloyd, United States Army, Anchorage, Alaska security detachment. Approximately 23 minutes ago, Chinese Communist forces set foot on Anchorage soil despite our soldiers' best efforts to prevent that landing.

As expected, the Chinese have launched a two-pronged attack -- one aimed at occupying Anchorage proper, and the other at securing this base.

Thanks to our entrenchment, the U.S. casualties here on the mountain are currently minimal, but that's not going to last for long. Chinese reinforcements appear to be… Well, endless. It's… It's just a matter of time before we're overrrun.

We'll die today, but by God, we'll give those communist sonsabitches a black eye they'll never forget.

Lloyd out!

***

"Dammit!" Chinese fire tore at our little barricade, eating the metal crates with the sheer number of bullets. They'd seen us at the same time we'd seen them: eight, maybe ten soldiers, all clustered around a coffee machine. In an enclosed space like this, all they really had to do was keep a straight line and remember which way we were in.

I winced as Jeffrey's rifle thundered over the top of the corrugated box; God had been condensed into a thick metal rifle, and he was [/i]loud.[/i] My ears rung like an entire cathedral full of bells, but I could still hear the scream from downrange.

"Damn those Reds," Benji grit out. A chunk of metal tore off the crate, and he twitched.

Breath. It's only a game. I forced the mantra out, and then nudged the colonel. "You may wanna get down." He studied my face, before nodding, pulling Jeffrey further back with him.

Now I just had to hope I was right.

The world froze around me as I stood up and toggled VATS. My breath hung in the air, a warm mist in the frigid Alaska air. Of the group we'd encountered, five were still crouched behind the shelter of an upturned table. The hall dropped off on one side, a yawning abyss stretching down towards infinity. A dozen racks of shells

I studied the scene before me. Without my bulky power armor--God, what I wouldn't give to have it right now--I could move fast enough to get maybe three shots off before the charge in the targeting program was depleted. And I wasn't liking the percentages popping up besides the soldiers.

Plan B it was, then.

[Balmas]

Incidentally, did you know that there's a 50,000 character limit on the forum?

Part 2:
I grinned, shifting through the list of targets, and queued three shots right on the tip of one of the bright crimson shells.

The program dissipated, yanking my arms mechanically towards the bombs. One, two shots flew, and for a moment, I worried that nothing would happen, that I'd picked a dud.

Then the world exploded. Fire burst over me, cooking me like a steak on a grill. I had a momentary glimpse of a soldier being torn apart, and then I blacked out.

***

Pain.

Not dull pain, either. My entire body felt like it was being put back together, fire tearing through me as the dispenser did its work.

"You've gotta be the craziest sonofabitch I've ever met."

Overall, not the worst way to wake up. Still, the grudging admiration in Montgomery's voice said I'd done something right, I think.

I sat up, groaning at the kinks in my back. We sat in… Well, it was somewhere between "crater" and "holocaust." What hadn't been blown up had melted. The once-proud welded metal plating had warped and twisted with the heat of the explosion, pouring down the wall to puddle at the bottom. The racks with all the bombs were twisted monuments, like they'd simultaneously melted and blown out into ornate crystal spires. There was nothing left of the soldiers.

I take it back. There were a few lovely charred silhouettes painted onto the wall.

"We're coming up on the cliff," Benji informed me. "Just up those stairs, and we're out."

Stairs? My back felt like a herd of rhinos had decided it would be the ideal spot to hold their annual stomp-dance festival, and some joker had swapped my knees for two bowls full of jello. Yeah, stairs would be no problem. "Help me up?"

Together we limped to the next room, and I had to stop and stare. This was quite possibly the largest room I'd ever seen. Steel beams and cinderbrick supported a massive, stone ceiling. Every few seconds, the entire chamber hopped with the impact of explosions. My eyes played across posters of stalwart Chinese soldiers, standing strong against the American oppressors. Illegible logos scrawled across them, like a chicken had brushed over a jar of ink and then danced across the paper. A network of stairs led between and over the dozens of racks of high explosives. My eyes traced them to where the stairs disappeared in the wall.

Apart from we three, the bombs, and the stairs, the room was empty. Part of me was glad that there were no more soldiers to fight, but the other part insisted that it was kinda creepy. A third part was busy trying to shove parts one and two in a closet so I could forget that my reaction to nobody trying to kill me was, "This is kinda weirding me out."

The ceiling thumped again, raining plaster down on us as the guns upstairs dropped another salvo down on the city below. My knees complained loudly as I dropped into a crouch. "Did you see that?"

Jeffrey rifle slung under his arm in a look of supreme relaxation, shot me an odd look. "Tha's not very specific."

"I… I thought I saw something move." It had been brief, just a hint out of the corner of my eyes, like the oily ripple of light on the sludgy Potomac.

A few minutes of painful crouch-walking later, I was feeling more than a little silly as I looked over at the loading system for the guns.

http://i.imgur.com/KqnyD6R.jpg

An enormous gear slowly churned, bombs laden on top. With a rumble, another shell dropped onto Anchorage, and a towering line of bombs trundled upwards. I sighed, and turned towards my two companions. "I'm sorry, guys. I guess it was no-"

Something whistled towards my head, and I dropped on principle. That's the only reason I wasn't instantly decapitated when a sword hissed through where I'd been standing just before. I spun, hand flashing towards the sheath where I'd tucked the wickedly spiked knife. It was out in a second, the matte blade seeming to absorb the light from the fluorescents.

I turned, knife ready and willing to slash, maim, and otherwise inconvenience… Nothing. There was nothing there. Just me, the two soldiers, and the constant thumping of the cannons above.

Then nothing moved. My skin crawled as a vaguely man-shaped cutout of the background shifted, melting like water across the I-beams and the racks of bombs. Imagine if glass and water had been melded together and cast into a man's mold. It hung in the air like a patch of the universe had decided to be just that little bit out of sync with everything else.

I'll be honest. It scared the crap out of me. And don't give me any crap about it, either. Mirelurks, fine. Talon mercs, fine. I can walk into a raider nest and come out the other side with a hundred pounds of guns and chems, and not break a sweat. But this? This took my paranoia and started twisting it like a screw. Even VATS was acting up; no matter which way I twisted my head, the little sensor refused to believe that there was anything there. I might have been fighting air, for all I

"Dragoons!" Montgomery's shout was both furious and-- was that fear? Let's just wrench that screw a little tighter, why don't we? The nothing raised a long, thin -- Holy hell that's a SWORD.

The dragoon was absolutely silent as it swung at me, moving with a grace that I felt was altogether unfair. By comparison, my clumsy attempt to block with the blade of my knife only made me look like a baboon that had set itself on fire. I stumbled back against a support beam, the sword striking sparks against it.

The pile of molten glass shifted again, lancing towards me like a cracking whip. It was fast-- faster than me. Only the small patch of ice on the floor and my boots' bad grip saved me. The dragoon's sword traced a line of fire over my cheek as I fell, and it danced back, preparing for another strike. I wheezed, both from the shock and the impact of the floor.

The air filled with the soft puffing of Benji's assault rifle. He wielded the thing like a hose, spraying a cone around where the hole in the universe was. And it started bleeding.

The effect was supremely weird: spots of blood danced in the air in front of me, a torso written in red unsupported by anything else.

It was bleeding.

I could see it! And more importantly, so could VATS! Out came the little chinese assault rifle, toggle the little mental switch, line up a flurry of shots…

The program discharged just as it should. I felt it sieze my arms, yank them to the side, and squeeze the trigger in three short bursts. The assault rifle shuddered, and for just a second, the invisibility around the dragoon burst, and revealed a black, rubber-looking suit. Then, the blue static stole any more detail I could glean.

I waited a few seconds, staring at the discolored spot on the metal flooring. Every muscle in my body was tense, just waiting for something to move so I could fill it with metal and fire. When nothing happened, I felt almost cheated.

I sagged against a pillar as all the tension went out of me. Too many things, happening too close together, with waaay too many times that were too close to death. "So, we're close, then?"

Benji nodded. "Just up those stairs. Should be an ammo resupply station there too."

Right. That was good. Get the explosives, blow up the damn cannon, and get the hell out of here.

You know, normally, a sentence like that would get me more excited.

I sighed, brushing away the reminder of just how drab and boring I'd gotten, and stood up. "Well, then, let's get going. Places to go, people to kill."

Rather, that's what I planned to say, if the second dragoon hadn't decided that since his sword didn't have a sheath, my torso would be an ideal replacement. I stared at it in confusion; the thin, invisible blade stuck out, and for a moment, all I could think was, "Oh…"

A line of red dripped down the edge of the sword. Blood. My blood, this time. I stared at it, gulping in mute disbelief.

Benji's assault rifle puffed, and I felt the hand on the sword shudder and drop away. Since really, that was all that was holding me up, I dropped too. I wanted to lift my hands up, try to pull the sword out, but my hands weren't working like they should. My arm was a dead snake hanging off my shoulder.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit…" Benji continued his litany of mild cursing as he propped me up. At least, I think he did. The pillars were doing a lovely dance with the propaganda. My snake-arm tapped feebly at my pipboy. Stimpaks. Anything in a needle. I needed it.

"I don't want to do this," Benji murmered, pulling something out of his belt pouch. Wossat? My blurring eyes went wide. I knew that shape. That beautiful, bliss-delivering needle and pouch.

I felt a pinch on my arm, and warmth swept over me. The black creeping into my vision faded, to be replaced with red. I still hurt, but who had time for that? There was **** to blow up!

The Psycho had me on my feet in seconds. "Alright! Let's do this!" I brandished my rifle like a spear and charged for the stairs, Jeffrey and Benji trailing behind.

The wind of the cliff hit me like a physical wave as I tore open the door. Chinese battle cries carried me up over the little dip and across the narrow metal catwalk. Yeah, they were angry. But you know what? I had fire in my veins, fire in my hands, and they melted before me. My gun carried me from one patch of chinese soldiers to the next, bloodstains and hissing static the only evidence of my passing. Concrete and steel bunker? Screw that, and screw you!

"Soldier!" Someone shouting. Who cared? Certainly not me. I was busy, an evil grin on my face, laughter roaring out over the cliffs. "Soldier, the cannon!"

Cannon? Right! Explosives! Thunder boomed as the enormous concrete barrel rolled backwards in its cradle. It was the biggest, best gun I'd ever seen, and I knew I wanted one. But it was okay! I had things that went boom, and that was just as good. I mean, who cared where the explosion was, so long as it happened? Just slather it on, pretend you're spreading explosives butter on cannon toast!

"Thirty seconds to get clear!"

Thirty seconds? Who needed thirty seconds? I could still hear cannons firing off… that way! And I was a God, with thunder in my hands!

Grenades! Mine! I scooped them off the table inside the little shelter and whooped off towards the second mammoth mortar. Behind me, the world turned white as the massive gun exploded, sagging in its cradle.

Sniper! I caught a glimpse of the grey-on-black suit, with its twisting wires and sleek, orange glass helmet as it decloaked and raised a long, scoped tube at me. Weeeeell, guess what? If you guessed, "Sniper battle," well, you guessed wrong, because it wasn't even a contest! Two gunshots cracked the air, and a .308 bullet sent his head spinning off into the canyon depths.

Jeffreys stumbled, but managed to grab the C-4 I tossed to him. He busily set about spreading it over the second cannon's firing mechanism while I went on to the third.

Let's see: turrets? Check! Snipers…

Blang! Blang!

No more snipers! It's amazing how easily problems solved themselves when I had a gun. And now the other three in the fuzzy armor knew I was here, they were coming right to me! Wasn't that nice of them? Meant I wouldn't have to go looking all over for them so I could put a bullet in their heads.

Two of them hung back, their assault rifles blazing innaccurate cones of death over the canyon. Bullets? Who cares about bullets? They shuddered against my armor, a child's angry beating against a man's chest. They couldn't hurt me, not when I was a GOD! Two swift VATS-guided shots took care of them. I crowed, laughing at their pitiful…

Two. Only two. Which meant that the third was…

The world exploded in a wave of heat and fury. I screamed; everything felt harsher, sharper. My armor did nothing against this. I was an insect being eaten alive by some acid-spewing monster. Cracks formed in my goggles as the heat of the flame met the biting chill of the wind. I flung myself to the side blindly. Oh, please God, let me find a snow-drift and not a cliff…

Luck was on my side; I wheezed as I puffed down into a heavy drift, white filling my vision. Couldn't stay too long. Had to keep moving. Needed morphine. I craved the numbness that the needles'd bring me, but I just didn't have any!

A draconic roar burned away precious inches of my shelter, and I rolled closer to the rock face of the cliff. The snow slid away as I scrambled to find my feet, toggling VATS. For once, there was only one thing to keep track of. The armor on the soldier looked like it was probably only slightly thicker than any other, but it had an oily sheen to it, like someone'd spread vaseline over the entire thing.

All I could focus on, though, was the little light flickering in the mouth of the soldier's weapon. The orange-blue flame guttered back and forth like the pilot light in some ancient dragon's throat. Even as I toggled in two sniper-rifle bullets, I could see the deep tube of the flamethrower beginning to belch up another burst of flame.

Two things happened at once. The fire roared over me, an orange wash of melting, driving pain. Then the targeting program yanked my arms into position and blasted the soldier's head into a mush of brain and bone fragments.

"Kid… kid…" Sorry, too busy right now. On fire. Had to find something. The snow burned almost as bad as the fire, but at least I could brush it off.

"Good job, kid." Benji nodded at me, and then at the last gun. "Let's blow that soup can, and get back to camp, already."

Right! I couldn't believe that I forgot the kaboom. Can't forget the fantastic explosives, right? It spread into the firing mechanism like so much clay, the little timer tucked into it almost like a cherry on top of a sundae.

"Twenty seconds to get clear!" We dashed for the shelter of the rocks, slipping on the snow as we ran. I made it behind my rock just as the world exploded behind me, and everything went white.

Covert ops perk: 4/10

[Triaxx]

Awesome. Can you actually save that soldier, or is it a role-playing thing?

[Wookieetank]

Yay updates!

Also Congrats on the job! :smallbiggrin: It might not be what you want, but once you've got your foot in the door and start making a name for yourself its a lot easier to move on to bigger and better things.

[Balmas]

Awesome. Can you actually save that soldier, or is it a role-playing thing?

I may have... *ahem* taken some liberties with my interpretation of the game. The death of the soldier is a scripted event; you're given just enough time to see him, hear the chinese, but they start shooting before you can get around the rock to save him.


Yay updates!

Also Congrats on the job! :smallbiggrin: It might not be what you want, but once you've got your foot in the door and start making a name for yourself its a lot easier to move on to bigger and better things.

Yup. I seem to have made a good first impression, and the produce crew are a fun bunch.


Incidentally, you know that you're both a writer and a psychologist when you consider not only how a drug feels, and how the withdrawal feels, but what it actually does. :smalltongue:

[Wookieetank]

Yup. I seem to have made a good first impression, and the produce crew are a fun bunch.


Incidentally, you know that you're both a writer and a psychologist when you consider not only how a drug feels, and how the withdrawal feels, but what it actually does. :smalltongue:

Well played sir. :smallsmile: I shall be eagerly awaiting the next update (and pondering how the hell you know what using fictional drugs would even begin to feel like :smalltongue:)

[Triaxx]

Ah, I'm perfectly fine with roleplaying alterations for the sake of the story.

[Balmas]

Well played sir. :smallsmile: I shall be eagerly awaiting the next update (and pondering how the hell you know what using fictional drugs would even begin to feel like :smalltongue:)

Well, it helps that some of them are direct equivalents of real-world chemicals. The rest of that is inferring from what I know about the drugs in canon.

Med-X, until a scandal in Australia, was actually called Morphine. If you look in the GECK, the editor ID is still Morphine, and the addiction is labeled morphine addiction. It has practical uses as a painkiller, and recreational uses as an opiate and relaxant.

Buffout is a form of steroids. Not many mind-altering affects; the addiction is a purely physical thing.

According to Fallout 2, Jet is a form of methamphetamine.

Psycho is one of the few drugs without a close counterpart in the real world. It's also probably the one I've put the most thought into about how it feels, since it's the one in-story that Ferguson is addicted to. I've chosen to interpret the feeling as being closer to the effects of the Fallout 2 version of Psycho. It increases aggression, while suppressing some of the self-preservation instinct. When you take it, pain is dulled, while other physical sensations increase. It's a rush of power. However, you pay for it at the end of the day with depression when the high wears off. (That'd be the -1 endurance and -1 perception of Psycho addiction.)

[Wookieetank]

Huh, well you learn something new everyday.

[BladeofObliviom]

According to Fallout 2, Jet is a form of methamphetamine.

This is true, but it's a lot less entertaining than the full story. While the active ingredient in Jet is some form of amphetamine, it's actually a fairly low concentration. Jet could perhaps be best described as a Gaseous Solution, since it's basically composed of compressed Brahmin Dung fumes, which themselves contain an amphetamine derivative thanks to a defective prewar dietary supplement. :smallbiggrin:

(Yes, all those junkies in New Reno are severely addicted to super-concentrated Cow Poo smell. Just...just think about that one.)



On the subject of Psycho, I actually came to the conclusion that it was some variant of PCP. It explicitly dulls the senses (to an extreme degree, since the effect is over three times that of Med-X) and offers an increase to top speed and strength while decreasing higher reasoning.

The last part in particular speaks to me of hallucinogenic effects, since not being in the real world does sort of tend to impact your ability to think.

Of course, this turns out to be fairly similar to your theorized effects anyway, so I just thought I'd share a mostly-assenting opinion. :smallsmile:

[Balmas]

Well...

I really don't know how to say this. It's something I've been thinking about doing for a while now, but it's painful.

Lately, I have not had the drive I need to get through these five-thousand word drafts. I'm not a good author, really I'm not, and the subject matter means that I wouldn't really feel comfortable asking any of my family or friends to proofread it, make sure it's comprehensible.

I wish I'd considered before getting started just what I was getting involved in. If I'd decided from the beginning to have it be just a story or just a let's play, instead of trying to do this mashup of the two.

More than anything else, though, is the sheer amount of time involved in mashing these chapters out. By my calculations, if I can do one chapter a week, it'd be around... a year and a half before we get to the end. And if I futz around like I've been doing due to work and life getting in the way, I'll be out of college by the time Ferguson hits the Enclave mobile base.

As such, I'm sad to announce that I'm pulling the plug. Kicking Ferguson's bucket. Ending it. It was a fun series, but in the end, I have to move on with my life. Now that I'm going back to college, I'll have even less time. Better to just make a clean break of it than try to keep going in the five minutes of spare time I have each day.

So, I guess this is goodbye. You've been a wonderful audience.
http://media.tumblr.com/86b9c82e997dcb9efaa2200db47de57e/tumblr_inline_mrw28cB0W61qz4rgp.gif

[Wookieetank]

RIP Ferguson, you shall be missed. Good luck with college and Life in general Balmas! Should you ever start another lets play, I'll be more than happy to follow it :smallsmile:

[Balmas]

Or it could have been a very convincing April Fool's day joke. :smallwink:

Reality.

I'm not entirely sure whether it's possible to be completely certain what's real or not. After all, in the end, it's just a matter of perceptions. We each go through life like little bubbles, aware only of the things in our precious area. Occasionally, we brush up against other bubbles, and find a short, terrifying glimpse of what other people think, but otherwise, it's all just millions of tiny spheres, floating through space.

The really scary thing, though? It's all our perception of things. I've seen things while I was riding a cocktail of Psycho and vodka that I really hope aren't real, but I saw them. In that terror-stricken, drug-addled moment, they were real to me.

Ultimately, our perception of things is the only bit that's real.

So what did that say about the simulation?

***

The world went white. I hung in the void, waiting for the simulation to end. There. Simulation over, and time to get some loot. My mind filled with visions of rack after rack of energy weapons, power armor, an arsenal of goodies to play with. Even if there wasn't really much, it'd be at least enough to buy another meal and maybe a whiskey at the bar in Megaton.

I winced as the white faded away, and something assaulted my nose. It was like someone had taken raider stench and decided to make a cologne out of it. (Cologne. There's another thing I've yet to try. Maybe I'll find a perfume factory one day.) The smell hung around like a strung-out thug, waiting in a back alley and demanding loose change.

"That was some damn fine work you did taking out those guns, soldier, damn fine!"

I felt like I'd gone on a bender at Moriarty's and was just beginning to wake up. Everything was too loud, too bright. The world was an angry spike being shoved through my forehead. Or maybe that was just the man talking to me…

I winced, and looked at the source of the pain. He was a tall man, austere, with a close-cropped bush of grey hair. His trenchcoat looked like it could have been taken from a high-class catalog for men, if high-class men often rolled around in dirt and razor blades. Most worrying, though was how he was smiling at me. People don't smile like that unless they're either addicted to something or trying to sell you an idea.

I stared at him. What was his game? Where was I? He kept watching me, grin plastered across his face and showing more teeth than an angry bear. Truth to tell, I'd probably choose the bear over this. He was making me nervous. Why wasn't he saying anything?

Oh. Right. With a start, I remembered all those little things that don't get used often in the Wasteland, like smiling back at people. And responding to someone when they talk to you.

"Er… Thank you. Sir." He looked like a "sir" kind of guy. I noted the trail of stars picked out in gold on one of his epaulettes, and the small "U.S." pins impaling his wide lapels. Geez, you could poke an eye out on those things. A small brass pin etched out "General Chase" above one chest pocket.

An idle thought ran through my mind that if it weren't for the grey hair, he could have been a duplicate of Protector McGraw. They both seemed to like flat-top crew cuts and staring at a spot somewhere five feet past the back of my head.

Satisfied, the man nodded. "Unfortunately, while you were up there climbing mountains, we were down here getting our butts kicked." Uh oh. "The Chinese decided to use our field H.Q. for target practice, and damn near blew us all to pieces."

Damn. So, still in the simulation. I wanted to look around, but figured that this guy probably wouldn't appreciate me wandering off in the middle of the conversation. Looked like some kind of tent. Metal pipes held up large cloth walls. Folding tables and functional metal chairs were pushed to the edges of the tent, along with shelves full of radios, computers, and bits of scrap. My gut twinged as I saw the edge of a psycho injector behind a radio. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all…

"We lost some good men, including my Strike Team Commander, Colonel Patterson."

I didn't like where this was going. There had to be a shorter way to get this over with, to fast-forward through the rest of the simulation. "Anything I can do to… assist, sir?"

The man snorted. "Well, I sure as hell didn't call you down here for pep talks and cigars. You did a damn fine job up there. You've earned yourself a field promotion, soldier. As of today, you're taking on Patterson's strike team."

What. No, seriously, what the hell? I gawped at him, trying to figure out what this meant. Why was this part of the simulation? Was this just supposed to happen, programmed in? "Thank you, I guess?"

"Before you thank me, you better wait and see what your mission entails."

Well, we might as well get this over with… "What are my orders, sir?"

"There are three targets that stand in our way of taking back what's ours," the man replied. "That's where you and your strike team come in. Follow me over to the situation map and I'll bring you up to speed."

I nodded, and watched him walk the short distance to an elaborate table. But what a table! Blue lines, like lasers, spread over the massive surface of the table to show a map of the surrounding area. Thick metal handles on either side of the table said that this was probably a recent addition to this camp.

As I watched, miniature shapes trailed across the map, a flying V of lines in the animated surface.

General Chase pulled a small riding crop from his coat and smacked the map. "We," he said, "are here. The field HQ is pretty secure now that the artillery guns are gone." The crop thwacked down three more times on the map. Chase fiddled with a small control panel on one side of the futuristic table, and lights popped up where he'd indicated. "The first of the three targets we need to handle is their damned Chimera Depot over here. Get in, blow up their fuel tanks, and come back."

"Right. Two and three?"

"Your second target is all the way over here. The Chinese have set up a listening post set into the side of Callaway Ridge. There are some abandoned mines along the route, so keep your eyes and ears open. It's a great place for an ambush." Chase ran a hand through his buzz-cut. I could almost hear his bristles protesting. "Once you've taken care of the first two obstacles, you'll need to cross their pulse field. You need to overload it so the T-51s can go in and mop up. And then we'll have all we need!"

"Seems simple enough," I said, studying the map. It looked like there were three paths leading from this small camp to the glowing lights. Good, since it meant it would be hard to get lost. Bad, since that meant they knew which way were coming.

"Let me warn you now: Unless you have some sort of a death wish, I wouldn't even go near the field until the first two targets are down." General Chase took a puff on a noxious cigar and blew the smoke up towards the pipe-and-canvas rafters of the tent. "Lieutenant Morgan will be your eyes and ears for Operation Anchorage, so get everything else you need from him. Uncle Sam's invested a lot of money turning you into a killing machine. Time to pay him back! Dismissed!"

He stalked off to the other side of the tent, leaving me alone with my thoughts, a list of things to do, and no clue how to do them.


Wonderful.

[Triaxx]

Honestly Ferguson, when have you ever had an idea of how to do things you needed to do?

[Wookieetank]

Or it could have been a very convincing April Fool's day joke. :smallwink:

*slow clap* Well played sir.

In other news: YAY! :smallbiggrin:

[Balmas]

Alright. Heartfelt confession time, people. I certify that every word in this post is true, unlike my last post. It is also told in my own language, and as such, may contain traces of nuts.

I just got back from a discussion with my bishop. I have been addicted to one of nature's most potent chemicals, and am now taking steps to get free. This involves a greater dedication to God, to keeping myself pure, and to be free of something that ultimately is making me unhappy.

Part of this is not playing violent video games.

Don't get me wrong. I love violent video games. They're amazing fun, and a wonderful way to pass an afternoon. What I dislike is how they make me feel; they dull the sensitivity to the Holy Spirit, make me irritable, and have been a key part in drawing me away from where I should be.

As such, in order to have a better life, I'm swearing them off. Borderlands, Bioshock, Team Fortress, and, unfortunately, the Fallout series. Anything with an M rating goes out of the laptop, never to be installed again.

I understand this may be controversial. I'd understand if you hate me for misleading you, playing with you, and ultimately failing to deliver.

I will continue writing, of course, but it won't be Fallout, and it won't be Ferguson. Thank you for your time, your friendly comments, everything you've done to keep me going. I'm sorry to disappoint.

I wish all of you well. May you find happiness in everything that you do.

[dirtytricks]

disappoint!? far from it man. Not only are you bettering yourself, but you have to stones to be right out in the open about it in a unprecedented display of honesty in an online forum. You deserve a freaking standing ovation. Get well, Balmas, and thank you for inspiring me to pick up my favorite game again with your great story. I wish you the best.

[Wookieetank]

Best of luck to you! I know how hard it can be to get rid of an addiction from watching a number of friends struggle to give up smoking, and taking that first step is HUGE. I applaud you efforts towards self improvement and second every word of:

disappoint!? far from it man. Not only are you bettering yourself, but you have to stones to be right out in the open about it in a unprecedented display of honesty in an online forum. You deserve a freaking standing ovation. Get well, Balmas, and thank you for inspiring me to pick up my favorite game again with your great story. I wish you the best.


I do hope that you continue some sort of writing on the forums, you writing makes for a very enjoyable read. :smallsmile: If you ever need suggestions for non-violent thought provoking/feel good games lemme know. I've found quite a few gems in the indie scene and have been compiling a list that I've found share worthy.

[Triaxx]

Well, I'm sad to see you stop, but you've got to do what's right for you. Good luck.

[Balmas]

Thank you for all your kind words, friends. I'm glad that I was able to entertain you in some small way. :smallbiggrin: If you're interested, I've outlined the way I imagined the story going, down the line.

For now, though, here! The beginnings of a potential New Vegas Bounties Let's Play that I'll never finish.

War…

I remember a feller once told me that war, war never changes. Real city-slicker kinda guy, waved around a beat-up six-shooter like he was conducting an orchestra. "S'all the same," he slurred, drunk on those two most popular of intoxicants, alcohol and overblown self-importance. "War never changes. It'sh jusht people and plaches, circumshtances."

He'd probably done a good bit of thinkin' on that line, thought it sounded deep. Spouted it off to his friends, if he had any.

Me, I thought it was some of the most pretentious horseapples I'd ever heard.

See, war, far as I see it, changes all the time. Cavemen sure as hell din't have guns, or knives, or any of that. People went and built bigger stuff to kill each other. Over and over. Rocks went to knives, knives went to swords, swords lost out to muskets, an' so on. Every time someone made the best way possible to kill people, another new feller came along. People, killin' people, and findin' new ways to do it better, faster.

Somewhere along the line, some bright idiot thought that it'd be a good idea to make a weapon so big, so deadly, that nobody'd ever use it. "It'd be certain death for anyone to use nukes," I can imagine somebody sayin'. Big, polysyllabic words like "Mutually Assured Destruction," an' "complete annihilation."

Now, folks've been killin' each other with the biggest, the bestest, the deadliest weapon they've got fer centuries. You got three guesses to figure out what happened, and the first two are freebies.

Doesn't matter who shot the nukes first. Everyone else was second, and the world went to hell.

See, war changes all the time. Weapons change, tactics change, armor changes… Only thing that doesn't are the people. And if there's one thing I've learned from wandering the Wasteland is that so long's there's somebody stronger than someone else, there'll be folks willin' to use that strength the wrong way. Take what they want. Kill people they don't like.

And so long as there are people like that, who don't know what law and order mean until it's shoved down their throat on a .357 bullet, there will be people like me. I supply the bullets.

Name's Barkin. Formerly of Randall and Co., current freelance bounty hunter for the New California Republic. When folks do wrong, I step in and… well, correct things a bit. Ain't a lawman. No money there. Bullets get to be expensive when you go through them like I do, gotta do somethin' to defray expenses.

So tell you what: Ain't got much to do nowadays. Not that I mind, really. Means I'm doin' my job, and if that means a few missed paychecks, it's fine with me. Siddown, have some whiskey, and lemme tell you a few things.

[Calemyr]

You deserve a freaking standing ovation. Get well, Balmas, and thank you for inspiring me to pick up my favorite game again with your great story. I wish you the best.

No kidding. I just found this a couple days ago, but I found it fascinating how you evolved the Lone Wanderer. I've always believed that you can use the framework from a game like this as the basis for a compelling story and you proved the point. My only regret is that this means we won't see your character's interactions with some of the more interesting later characters, particularly the companions like Charon and Cross.

That said, if it's hurting you it's best to leave it behind. Thank you for giving me such an interesting way to kill some boring hours at work.

Edit: Dang it, you were going to do New Vegas, too?