Private The treasure of the West (Fallout)

[Hermaeus_Mora]

San Fransisco, 2321 AD.

The great city of San Francisco which, like most other major cities, took direct hits from the bombs. While much of the city lay in ruin, the Golden Gate bridge still stands. A huge settlement of prospectors and merchants was built on the bridge. Beneath the bridge is a much poorer and impoverished sub-city, where the hungry and sick live.

The entire bay dried up during the war. What was once a flourishing ecosystem now a barren desert. The New California Republic stakes its presence here on the Rock, formerly known as Alcatraz. The Brotherhood of Steel has been rumored to have a base in the vicinity as well, but are rarely spotted closer than 20 miles from the city.

Rumors of a secret fortune hidden away in Nevada are being spread, tales of a bunker deep beneath the sands filled to the brim with wealth and possessions. A group of adventurers and daredevils set off to find this magnificent treasure, unaware that they are not the only ones searching for the rumored wealth...

 

[KaitoGhost]

Off in the distance, Richard could finally see his destination, The Golden Gate. "Thank whatever Gods there may be," he muttered to himself, wiping sweat from his brow. The trip had started out fine, his pack brahmin laiden with tradestuff and supplies, both he and his partner Bill Sanders in good spirits. But 3 days ago, a small group of fiends had attacked them.

The attack had caught them both off guard. Richard usually bought safe passage from the local Fiend clans by bringing them chems, and occasionally weapons, so they thought they were safe. Until the first shot rang out. Fortunately, fiends tended to be horrible shots, due to a lack of proper training, and intoxication. This particular group must have been stoned out of their minds on Jet, based on their higher than normal aggression. The two traders fled to cover, and returned fire, Richard with his old M1, and Bill with his shotgun.

The firefight had lasted the better part of an hour. At the end of it, all the fiends were dead, but unfortunately, so was Bill, having taken a stray shot to the throat, one of the few places not protected by his combat armor. It was a God damn shame. Richard had known Bill for almost 7 years. They'd worked for Crimson Caravan together, before starting their own trade business 4 years ago. Richard had spent the rest of the day burying (and grieving) his fallen friend.

Now, 3 days later, his trip was almost finished. Barring anymore trouble, Richard would reach the Golden Gate by nightfall. He flicked away the stub of his cigarette, and reached into his pack for his bottle of whiskey. He planned on getting good and drunk tonight, before passing out in the first available bed he could find. He would sell off Bill's gear in the morning.

 

[Simus]

Haha, glad you like her Hale, she was fun to write . How bout you're a friend of her parents and promised to keep her out of trouble while she wises up a bit?

 

[Hermaeus_Mora]

Harden woke up. Sniffed. Puked. Rolled away from the steaming heap of vomit he had produced. Bump. Another person. Opened his eyes. Darkness. Looked around. Light. Touched his head. Ouch. Tried to stand up. Fell. Ouch again. Back to sleep.

When he next woke up, Harden's mind was a bit clearer than before. Where the actual fluff was he, he wondered. Junkies all around him, a dark line holding back the sun. He crawled away from his sleeping place, into the sunlight. Red steel could be seen, in the shape of a bridge. The Golden Gate. Great, San Francisco. That probably meant he had just finished a job and spent all his money on booze and some chems, though the memory of it was gone.

He shrugged, and the Afro-American turned his back to the bridge. Time to go see what was happening in the city.

 

[Seanu Reaves]

Michael Aspili looked into the dirty hotel mirror. He saw a dark skinned face with dark brown eyes. The face was dominated by a large nose and thick lips. Little details that marked him as a multiracial man. The face betrayed no emotions, but that soon broke into a wide smile. He turned the sink off after he wet his hair. Which was just long enough to be called shaggy, and put his brown fedora on. He turned and exited the small bathroom into the main hotel room. Three dead bodies lay scattered around the room, to in the small kitchen area next to the bathroom and one laying on the bed closest to the door. It had been a good business day.

Michael had walked into the room, which was a decent sized rectangle. Two beds to his left, and straight ahead a small kitchen and a table that was meant to be the dining area. There was a bodyguard sleeping in the bed by the door. The target had been cooking some eggs on the stove back towards the door with a bodyguard was playing cards at the table facing the door way. Michael had his small .22 pistol already drawn. The bodyguard final noticed Michael and began drew his 9mm sub-machine gun. But a pair of small pistol rounds found his skull. As the man fell in his death throes his gun went off pumping some rounds into the targets legs.

The target fell as the other bodyguard rose from his slumber. A bullet to the brain ensured that he wouldn't rise anymore. It was over so quickly though not dead his target was immobilized and Michael was unharmed. The radio seemed to say what both men were thinking. “How lucky could one guy be?” Michael turned the radio off and lit a cigar.

“Now Jimmy-boy. Why you running?”

“Piss off Fate!” Michael looked and found that the eggs where ready to be flipped. And decided to put the eggs on a plate. Michael tore into the eggs as Jimmy groaned from his wounds.

“C'mon Jimmy-boy your smarter than this.”

“Look I knew I was short so I was listening for rumors. Something about a posse being formed out west. Something about treasure.”

“Really now. That still doesn't explain why you didn't talk to our mutual friend first. You do remember our mutual friend don't you Jimmy-boy?”

“Look what I have so far is in the night stand.”

Michael went and opened the top drawer. A small large of caps greeted him. He opened the sack and had to wager over a few hundred caps. He smiled and let out a large puff of smoke. Jimmy was nervously watching Michael.

“So we good?”

“Well our mutual friend is happy.”

“So you're going to let me go right?”

“Can't. I just got my payment. And remember Jimmy-boy you can't bribe Fate.” Jimmy's nervousness grew to full on horror as Michael pulled out his .22 again. After washing his face and checking the bodies Michael exited the hotel room. He worked his way through the hallway and went down the stairs. He exited into Freeside and decided that Jimmy-boy's rumor would be the best bet. His luck was changing for the better again Michael could feel it. Michael smiled and let tendrils of smoke escape his lips.

 

[Mr.Self Destruct]

Christopher's morning began like most others, with him waking up and wishing he didn't. His eyes fluttered open, and for a while he didn't move and simply stared at the ceiling of his second-rate motel room. After some time, he sat up, rubbing the back of his neck as he stood and made his way over to the cracked and dirty window. He parted the curtain and peaked outside, grimacing at the brightness of the sun. His eyes adjusted, and he found himself looking over the edge of a steep fall and out at a barren wasteland. What was once a bay full of water, now a scorched desert riddled with the remains of ships and boats.

He had reached San Fransisco the night before with the caravan he was being paid to safeguard. He didn't particularly care for any of them, and he regarded the group's leader, Gus, as a scumbag. He was your typical scammer and conman, and was an opportunistic piece of trash. Still, the pay was decent. 350 caps to tolerate and babysit them all the way from the Mojave to the Golden Gate. Trip had taken them the better part of two weeks, and the least of the trouble they ran into were a handful of wannabe raiders. Christopher had shot one of them and the rest had scattered, he was the 9th man Chris had killed.

Christopher used to be a raider, but much different than the thugs he ran into a few nights back. The gang he rode with didn't mess around, he was with the Fiends. Vicious sons of bitches that killed, stole and raped their way across the Mojave. That was, until the NCR got sick of getting potshotted at and decimated them. Though the gang's either gone or scattered, Christopher still bears scars from his time with them. Both physical and mental.

As Chris pulled on his shirt, he glanced at the scars all along his bicep. Little pinpricks so faint you'd miss them unless you really looked. When Chris was with the Fiends, he was big on Med-X. Though he's also left that behind, he's reminded of the temptation every day. Also fixed to his wrist was the pip-boy, and he sighed as his eyes fell upon the green glow of the screen. That was another story, one Christopher's never told to anybody.

He strapped his pistol to his thigh and slung his rifle over his shoulder as he headed out. Gus and the caravan were long gone, they had gone up to the Rock last night while Christopher had made a beeline for the nearest bar. While the Golden Gate was a nicer city than most; that is, aside from the plopshole beneath it, it still had a decent bar. Alcohol was Christopher's new thing, it's how he copped with the lack of Med-X.

Outside, the city was already buzzing. The same beggars and drunks were still splayed across the streets, either dead or alseep. Traders and pedestrians made their morning rounds, shops and stores were opening up. And from their posts along the bridge's masts, the NCR stood watch. Always looking, always ready to open fire on any threat, any where. Same old, same old, Christopher thought as he passed a sign which read "Welcome to the Golden Gate!"

 

[Hale Loneshadow]

Old Morman Fort. Well, they got the 'Old' part right, that's for damn sure, so thought Damian "Dam" (OOC: pronounced like "dame") Wynden-Pryce as his contact in the Followers, James Cagnay, led him into the sanctuary of the rest of the Followers of the Apocalypse. The Knight-Captain of the First Degree, of the Capital Wasteland Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel (an extensive title, to be sure!) had come via a Vertibird to the Mojave Wasteland a few days ago, specifically for two reasons.

The first, and most immediate, was to make contact with and look after the daughter of his friend and colleague of the Mojave Chapter, Paladin Brown. Her name was Jessica, and while he had never met her personally, Damian had fought alongside her father for years before Paladin Brown had been moved to Hidden Valley. While Paladin Brown was his senior by around twelve years, Knight-Captain Wynden-Pryce had always thought of him as more than a friend, much like a mentor, especially after his own father had been killed in front of him some years ago. Indeed, Wynden-Pryce was more than glad when Elder Sarah Lyons had told him of this assignment, even if it was a babysitting job. By all accounts, he was glad to be on the road again, and in a new, if unfamiliar, territory.

While walking into the Fort, Dam turned to James Cagnay and steadily asked, "Has she been assimilating well?", referring of course to Jessica.

With a smile, the fervent Follower replied happily, "Oh, yes indeed! In fact, in the couple of weeks since she first arrived, Ms. Brown has been advancing quite rapidly in her studies! But, you can ask her yourself in a second, that is her sitting there!"

"Thank you for your help and for guiding Jessica, my friend. We shall speak again soon. And as always, the Capital Brotherhood has your back," said Damian, as he walked over to a pretty, red-haired girl pouring over research of some sort. While an intelligent man by all accounts, science had never been Dam's strong point. That's what the Scribes were for, of course, and that was why he was a decorated field agent.

Walking so that she would see him so as not to scare the living daylights out of her, Damian Wynden-Pryce put a hand on the table and said in a strong voice, "Jessica? Jessica Brown? My name is Damian Wynden-Pryce, I'm from the Capital Wasteland Chapter. I'm not sure if you've heard, but your father sent for me to watch over you, during your tenure out in the Mojave."

 

[Simus]

Jessica was sitting at an old card table in a large tent in the Old Morman Fort. Her chair was an old plastic one and it wasn't very comfortable but in the last two weeks that had been the least of her worries. This was the first time in her eighteen years of life where she was out in the real world and on her own, completely independent of her family and friends in the Mojave Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel. It had been a sobering two weeks, both beautiful and terrifying, as she faced the world without a shield. It had been everything she ever wanted but she would be the first to admit she had seen more of the world than she had liked to.

Her mom and dad had brought her to Freeside to learn from and work with the Followers of the Apocolypse, a group of scientists who, from what she understood, were trying to make the world a better place, restore a little of what the world was before the bombs fell over two hundred years ago. She loved their idealism, but it seemed like an impossible task. Alot of her friends and neighbors in the Brotherhood certainly thought so, and the NCR had made them out to be bad people who didn't like government and stability. Jessica stilll couldn't get her head around that notion: The NCR wanted to help people and the Followers wanted to help people, so why didn't they work together? Why did they treat each other so badly? Was it because the Followers didn't do things the NCR way and neither side would compromise? Jesscia couldn't undersatand that either. The Brotherhood and the NCR were old, old enimies, but they had become the best of freinds in the Mojave. Hidden Valley welcomed NCR soldiers and rangers, the Brotherhood kept the highways and NCR caravans safe, they even got Helios One from the NCR as a thank you for all their help. Well, maybe it was becaus the NCR didn't need it, what with Hoover Dam and El Dorado and a couple of smaller stations that were stretching their manpower, but Jessica liked to think it was a peace offering. The point was, the NCR and the Mojave Brotherhood had done so much together. Why couldn't the Followers have the same bond?

She was tinkering with some rather sensitive chemicals as she was thinking this over. Between her own thoughts and the delicate mixture she was tending to, she barely even noticed the handsome man that had come to greet her. After a couple of seconds however, she realized he was there and that he was a friend of her dad's sent to keep an eye on her. Jessica didn't feel like she really needed to be looked after. After all the Followers here at the Old Morman Fort had welcomed her with open arms and were really nice to her. They all really liked her, especially James, her primary teacher over the last two weeks. Of course, parents would be parents and Jessica liked new people, so she didn't really mind.

"Oh! Hi there! Dad called and said you'd arrive sometime today." Jessica said cheerfully without taking her eyes off of the beaker of clear liquid in front of her or the pipette full of red liquid she was holding. "Just give me one second."

Jessica brought the pipette over the beaker and slowely squeezed the rubber cap at the top end. The red liquid slowely dripped out, drop by drop and she watched her mixture like an NCR soldier watches a super mutant.

drop. drop. drop. drop. yes.

After the fourth drop the mixture turned black and immediately started to bubble. Jessica shook the beaker a little and the liquid sloshed around and fizzed vibrantly, producing a thin layer of brown foam that quickly dispersed but made her heart leap. Extriemly encouraged by these results, Jessica took the baeker to her lips and sipped it. The results were immediate and completely euphoric.

"YES!" Jessica screamed, thrusting her beaker in the air and spilling a great deal on her visitor's leather coat. She ran outside into the courtyard bursting with exitement.

"EVERYONE!" Jessica yelled at the top of her lungs. "I'VE SYNTHESIZED NUKA COLA!"

 

[Uther Pundragon]

Home on the Wastes​

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"Whata fluffin' waste," the ex-ranger hissed between clenched teeth as his last round was spent, the shell sent flying to be lost in the vast abysses of desert and time. Shaking his head, he slung the marksman carbine back up over his hat and neck, then up under his right shoulder which allowed it to rest casually across his back. "fluffin' waste," he repeated again as sweat began to soak into the inner fabric of his clothing, the blazing heat of the sun doing little to improve his mood. His last bullet, wasted, and on a mangy radiated animal at that. The coyote that had attacked him continued to lay dead by his feet, blood seeping from the bullet lodged in its head, the dried and cracked ground soaking up each drop and hungering for more. Yet another fun-filled day in the wasteland.​

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Ed Jackson removed his brimmed hat before running his fingers through his oily shoulder-length hair. The gray streaks that littered his hair and beard were beginning to win the war over the black, but such was the price of aging. In the wasteland, not many people lived to face such trivialities as this. He placed his hat back on his head before glancing up at the sky, the sunglasses he wore shielding most of the rays of light. The sun had been out but for only a few hours, though he felt as if he had been walking for far longer than that. ​

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The good news was, he figured, was that San Fransisco was only a few more hours away, give or take an hour. Unfortunately, distance was not something that could always be accurately measured out in the wastes, not without decent equipment, and some time had passed since he last traveled this way. He wiped his gloved hand across his brow, clearing a bit of the perspiration that had built up, as he used his free hand to dig into his backpack to remove his water canteen. A few quick movements allowed the water to be sloshed around inside it and by the sound he didn't have much left. Ed took a quick swig and then returned it back to the pack. He would have to make good time or else be forced to drinking that radiated plops that tasted like gecko piss and burned your throat.​

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"Wella guess I best be gettin' a move onit then," Jackson mumbled as he went about collecting his gear; the carcass, that he would leave behind. He didn't have time to try to skin such a mangy rad infested mutt anyway and he wasn't far enough gone to put that infected plops into his mouth. It took him a few minutes to get situated, but once done, he set off toward San Fransisco and an uncertain future. But tell me, what future is certain in this harsh and barren wasteland we now call home? It was only a matter of time before his feet, and destiny, brought him into contact with events that would change his life yet again.​

 

[K3V!N]

Clint felt the Jet course through his veins as he sat watching the foot traffic down Presidio. Jet used to be an experience, one filled with seemingly endless possibilities manufactured by the epic high that it brought. There were days he remembered floating, epic benders at the Golden Gate or Chinatown that lasted forever but went by in seconds. He’d wake up on the outskirts of the city, or in a dumpster, even once on ‘the rock’ right under the NCR’s nose. Now he just felt ashamed and paranoid, the manic state of mind that Jet induced had become a seemingly permanent effect on his psyche. He couldn’t be sure whether it was the jet that had changed him or this hell hole he found himself in, the truth probably lay somewhere in the middle. The sun hung low in the sky taking the baking heat with it. The Golden Gate, bathed in orange light sat silhouetted like an albatross over the city. What was once a symbol of new life and new beginnings for Clint had become a daily reminder of how far he had spiraled.

No matter, he was a long way from his old life now, one of prestige and idealistic intentions turned on its head. The NCR ran deep throughout the city, standing watch as a constant reminder of who he once was. Their dog tags still hung over his neck, the metal scratched and tarnished, and the rubber silencers cracked and mangled. If he had any hope of a normal life again it wouldn’t be here, or anywhere near this regime.

The task at hand presented itself as the sun disappeared over the horizon. He made his way down to Broadway and Columbus, his usual territory. Chinatown was full of tweakers and prostitutes, the underbelly of a degenerate economy that thrived on providing vices to the willing and able. In his quest for the elusive high Clint had taken to manipulating the chemical makeup of Jet by mixing it with Nuka-Cola and detergent, an old recipe he had stolen from a drug lab while on deployment with the NCR. This new form of Jet, which was twice as powerful and consequently, twice as deadly, hit the market like a freight train turning the city upside down with chem use and overdose. He passed by his regulars, exchanging freshly crafted jet for a mere ten caps, a quarter of the price the drug lords of San Fran normally charged. He was revered in this neighborhood, not for his character but for his product and the accessibility. His arrival had brought nothing but trouble for the drug lords who held a monopoly on the city prior to his arrival. With prices as high as eighty caps, Clint turned a modest profit selling his product at fractions of their prices and by also reviving junkies who would OD on his product. A dead customer represented a dead opportunity to make more money.

He was a one man army, there were no thugs to command, no goons to do his bidding, so in order to survive he had to play the cards he had been dealt. There was hardly any overhead, so the prices could hit rock bottom and he could still squeak by. As he established himself as a legitimate pusher, the pressure from rival factions grew by the day. Suddenly it seemed he found himself on the defensive from bounty hunters and squads of fiends gunning for his head. Often times out matched, Clint relied on his ability to remain in the shadows and on the goodness of the junkies he supplied to hide him on several occasions. He knew his time was limited in this city, but for tonight, it was time to make some caps.

 

[KaitoGhost]

"We were out of ammo, had nothing but our knives left between us. The raider had us dead to rights, and he knew it. But instead of just shooting us, the damned fool starts to gloat, talking about how he was the most fearsome raider in the wastes, how the gang he was going to found would rule the Mohave, blah blah blah. He couldn't have been more than 15, 16 years old. Just a kid." Richard took another long pull of his whiskey bottle, and offered it to the prostitutes that surrounded him. The girls declined, however, which was fine with him. More for me, he thought to himself, before continuing on with his story.

"Well, me and Bill, we stood there, listening to the kid as he went on and on, feeling like damn fools. We both knew it was only a matter of time before he decided to shut up, and kill us. I looked over at Bill, and knew he was thinking the same thing I was. If we were gonna die, at least we would go down fighting. I was getting ready to rush the little bastard, when out of nowhere, a snake jumped up and bit him on the leg! Seems the boy had stepped a little too close to it's nest during his little speech. The kid dropped his gun in surprise, and wouldn't you know it, it went off when it hit the ground. Caught the bastard right underneath his chin. Put an end to his plans of dominating the Mohave right then and there. Bill was so happy, I thought he was gonna walk right over there, and plant a kiss on that snakes head! And I'd never been so happy to see a snake in all my life, that's for damn sure."

"Wow! Being a trader must be so exciting," the girl in Richard's lap purred. The trader grinned at her. "It can be. Mostly it's just alot was walking around, and talking to people, though." He couldn't tell if the interest on her face was real, or feigned, but he guessed it didn't matter. He'd already payed the fee, after all. Finding this brothel had been exactly what he'd needed. The alcohol, and the girls, served to take his mind off of his old partner. He had too much penned up frustration, and this was the perfect place to release it all. The trader had spent the last couple of hours drinking heavily, and entertaining the girls with adventures from his travels.

The former Sergeant raised the bottle of whiskey in a toast. "To that snake. May it live forever!" He took a long drink, before raising it once more. "And to Bill, the best partner a trader could have asked for. Rest in peace, old friend." This time, Richard drained the bottle. He'd accomplished one of the goals he had set for tonight. He was well and truly hammered. A small part of his mind scolded him, knowing that in the morning, he'd regret drinking so much, but he ignored it. Tonight was all about tonight. Right now, he didn't have a care in the world.

"Now, why don't I show you why they call me Sergeant Dick," Richard slurred to the young woman on his lap. He picked the giggling girl up, and stumbled his way to the room he had rented. It was time to accomplish the other goal he had set...

 

[Hermaeus_Mora]

Harden walked along the road leading up the the maginficent bridge. The people that lived here were junkies, and Harden guessed he was one too, at least for the night. He had found a whole sack of bottle caps in his rucksack, and would be spending it all one way or another. He trailed aimlessly through the big slums, until he finally saw someone who looked like he was dealing.

"Hello there, friend. You sell any of the good stuff?" The man nodded, and pulled out a syringe filled with the chem Jet, which seemed to be a local favourite. The dealer told him the price, and all Harden could do was to walk away, and tell the dealer, "fluff you, fuzzy kitten." Luckily the dealer was apparently in a good mood, as he didn't go after Harden.

Well, fuzzy kitten wouldn't even be that bad, Harden thought to himself, or maybe mumbled out loud, and walked into the first brothel he could find. The ladies were sitting there, all intently listening to some guy who was telling them some interesting story. The owner of the establishment came to greet the next customer, and Harden just gave the pimp his entire bag of caps, under the condition that he could take anyone and anything for a night. So he sat down in the vacant chair where that other man had sat talking to the ladies, and pulled out a smoke from one of the ladies' cartons before telling his own story to them.

 

[K3V!N]

“Hey junky, asshole, wake up!” The bartender shouted as he poked Clint with the butt of his shotgun. “You don’t gotta go home but you can’t stay here.”

Clint squinted as his vision shot in and out. His head felt like it was going to burst as he staggered to his feet. He stumbled towards the bartender clapping his lips together, his mouth chapped and dry.

“Water,” Clint managed to force the words from his lungs and he braced himself against the bar. He slid ten caps from his pocket, scattering them across the dirty counter as the bar tender handed him an old plastic bottle. He gulped it down; the gritty taste of dirt greeted him as he feverishly consumed the contents.
The stillness of the night was unsettling as he stumbled out onto the street.

All was quiet but the brothel next door to the pub which was unusually busy as he passed by it, narrowly avoiding bumping into the Brahmin tied up outside which ‘mooed’ in protest. He glanced in to see two men, one with a prominent scar on his face who looked the out of town sort enjoying the company of several working girls fawning over another potential customer. The kind of guy, Clint thought, that might drop a lot of caps on some chems. The other man looked all too familiar, maybe it was the vault armor which was a rarity, but he couldn’t quite place him which made Clint nervous as he continued towards the bridge; nevertheless making a mental note to swing back by and try to part the scarred cowboy from his caps.

The giant lights atop the Golden Gate beamed down on the pop-up city that had been built on its decaying surface, gleaming in all of its glory. He didn’t know what time it was, maybe two or three in the morning judging by the clientele that roamed the streets. The NCR troopers he'd dealt with on numerous occasions eyed him suspiciously as he woozily drifted down the street before ducking behind a building to vomit. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket as he collected himself, his hands trembling as he flicked at the lighter several times before managing to light the smoke.

He entered the breach, the section of the bridge that linked the topside and the forgotten shanty town that existed underneath it. The walls of sheet metal flickered in the hue of garbage fires that burned throughout the makeshift town as Clint weaved his way through the decay. The street was littered with junkies, fiends and hobos sleeping soundly by their fires or rummaging through trash piles for hidden gems. He clutched his shotgun, carefully holding it at the ready as more of a deterrent than an actual threat. He had been jumped by junkies before looking to score some chems and caps, the shotgun helped keep them at bay.

He slid into his shanty, pulling the chains behind him tightly and snapping the rusted padlock closed. The shanty itself was small, maybe a 6x6 with room enough for his cot and a small cabinet to set his things in. It wasn’t that he preferred to live here in the bowels of the Golden Gate; it was what the shroud of the bridge provided him that was critical, anonymity from the gangs who wanted him dead for even the most heinous of gangsters couldn’t sort through the endless swath of destitution. He reached up to light the lantern that hung from the low ceiling manufactured from a piece of scrap metal; the dim light warmly lit the room, exposing the gritty interior.

He blinked as he set his things down, staring closely at the figure tucked under a mass of blankets on his old NCR cot. He pulled the covers back and exposed a small child’s face, one that he recognized clearly. A few months back he had found the little girl, her face battered and bruised stuffed in a corner a few alleys away from his shanty. He didn’t know what had happened to her, only that whoever had left her there didn’t expect or want her to live.

Clint took her in; it felt good to practice actual medicine again and gave him something good to focus on for once outside of the monotonous grind that had become his routine.

The girl recovered, Clint fed, clothed and housed her until she was strong enough to return to the scourge under the bridge. Each night Clint would return from his regular outing and they would sit in silence, the little girl’s eyes beaming at his as if she had something to say but was too afraid to say it. One day, Clint came home to find his cot empty and the girl gone, presumably returning to whatever life she may have had before finding her way into his. It was only a few days before he found her again though, just as she was now, tucked under his blankets resting peacefully on his old cot and it had been that way each night ever since.

Clint put out the cigarette that hung from his mouth, coming to rest against the piece-meal wall. He reached over and stroked the girl’s hair watching her as she slept. The scar on her face had gotten better and she might even grow out of it he thought. He slid a bag of thirty caps between her arms, laid his rucksack down and promptly made a bed on the cracked asphalt taking another hit of Jet before drifting off to sleep.

 

[Mr.Self Destruct]

Christopher made his way through the market district and towards the NCR MP station situated towards the back of the settlement. Christopher never particularly cared for for the NCR, he didn't care for most of his employers. But he needed caps, and he was good at what he did. Unsurprisingly, some of a mercs biggest clientele consisted of flustered NCR officers and higher-ups, who didn't want to deal with any red tape or political leeway. Officers who wanted people dead but didn't want to get their hands dirty.

Christopher never did any mercenary work before, he had killed his fair share of men but was never paid to do so. He usually stuck to caravan work, the pay was better, and exploring was a tidy bonus. But he knew with a city like this, people wanted each other dead and they'd be willing to pay to make it happen. Christopher approached the shanty, unappealing MP station. Passing through a chain link gate, Christopher got snide, unapproving looks from the MP's guarding the checkpoint.

Chris stepped inside the small building, bumping shoulders with a MP as he stepped inside. Wiring dangled from the ceiling, dim, flickering light bulbs hanging from the tangled mess. Sitting at his desk, the brim of his hat covering his face and his eyes in a pre-war prono magazine was the town sheriff. A nameplate on his desk read "Snyder."

Christopher stood before him, and his eyes flicked up from his magazine. Cold and analyzing, sizing up the wastelander before him. "You one of 'dem mercenaries?" Lookin' fer work?" His cockney accent was almost comical. "Yeah." Christopher replied. "I'll tell you what son, brass would have my balls fer this but..." The sheriff stood from his desk, he leaned in close, so close that Christopher could smell the tobacco on his breath. "My job is to protect this bridge, and I always seek out the--" "It doesn't matter to me." Chris interrupted, staring back at the Sheriff unimpressed.

The Sheriff furrowed his brow, and smiled. "600 caps in it fer ya if you go down into that cess pool beneath us and find and kill that son of a bitch dat's been selling all that Jet to our fair citizens." He grinned, revealing a broken smile marred by blackened teeth. "Sure." Christopher said, bearing no qualms about killing a drug dealer. "Won't be hard to find him, ask the junkies about. They'll point you in the right direction." Christopher turned and headed out the door, "Have fun!" The Sheriff cried as the double-doors closed.

 

[Uther Pundragon]

The dealers' head snapped back, slamming into a slab of metal that protruded from a pile of collapsed debris. A loud thud resounded throughout, followed by a sickening crack as the back of his skull shattered then caved in. His now lifeless form slid down, almost comically, before toppling forward and landing face first into a collection of broken concrete. The group of vulturous junkies that dazed about quickly rushed forth in a hope to steal an easy fix from the now defenseless dealer. Jackson brought a sized ten boot down atop the head of the corpse shattering it, whipping his head about with a snarled expression deeply rooted on his face, effectively scattering the addicts and sending them back into the rat-infested hole from whence they came.


"Sonofabitch!" Jackson shouted after the fleeing parasites, most were still severely wasted and did not even have the motor functions to properly run away. "fluffin' two steps n'it'n already be'n hounded by fluffin' scabs," he spoke to himself as he wiped his boot against the corpse, clearing some of the brain from it. He had literally just entered the Golden Gate before he was approached by a local dealer who wouldn't take no for an answer, nor knew how to take a hint. So Jackson imprinted the hint into the back of his head, maybe a bit harder than he intended, but what was done was done and that also meant one less slinger on the streets. Not that it really mattered since filth replaced filth just as quickly as the previous was taken out.

Kneeling by what remained of the dealer, Jackson began to riffle through his belongings, but after a quick yet careful search he was unable to find anything of worth. Some drugs, a few caps, and a mostly empty bottle of rot gut. The caps and liquor he pocketed while the drugs, however, were crushed beneath his boot. "Welcome to fluffin' San Fransisco!" he broadcasted to those within hearing range, as he stood back up while stretching his arms out wide and doing a little dance. "That's right! Ed Jackson is fluffin' back!" He began walking off into the city, any spectators that happen to still be watching him slowly backed away.

It may have been a while since he was last here, but his presence would not go unnoticed. He would see to that. First stop: a cantina; second stop: a gun dealer.

 

[K3V!N]

The gunshot stirred Clint awake as he jumped from his makeshift bed on the ground. He immediately turned toward the cot which now lay empty, the blankets loose and lifeless. Gunshots weren't exactly an uncommon occurrence in San Fran, but they were nonetheless unsettling and Clint sat wondering if the next shot would be for him.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he fumbled through his rucksack uncorking a mostly empty scotch bottle and downing its contents. He let out a cough as the bootleg scotch met his esophagus with violent ferocity producing a burning sensation that warmed his chest. He looked down at the ruck, full of empty vials of Jet and miscellaneous food products set perfectly into their labeled pockets. He pulled a ceramic applicator from its perch, screwing a fresh vial of jet into its grimy receiver which let out a small puff of air as the applicator de-pressurized the contents of the vial. He lifted the applicator to his mouth, examining its dulled white casing as he pushed down the trigger, the chemical passing through his lips.

He lay out on the cot and braced himself as the jet made its way through his system. All at once his muscles tensed as his limbs began to convulse violently forcing them to bang against the metal sides of the cot. He clenched his jaw tightly as his eyes forced themselves as wide as they could go; his vision turned from Technicolor to gray and back again before the convulsing finally relented. He shot straight up as he came to rest, throwing the applicator back in the open ruck. He brushed himself off, donning his tortoiseshell glasses before heading back out into the street prepared for the day.

He had planned to head back to the brothel remembering the scarred cowboy from the night before. With any luck he’d still be there and still have a pocketful of caps in tact, depending on if the girls took him for everything or not. The morning sun now sat high in the sky as he locked up the shanty, exposing the ghetto in it's fully disheveled state. The garbage fires had died down, leaving smoke trails that fumigated the underside with a variety of unpleasant smells. In the distance two men carried a rotting corpse by its arms and legs, scurrying between the shanty's towards an unknown destination.

Clint could see a figure fast approaching in his peripheral vision, he drew he shotgun and turned to the man.

“Whoa cuz!” Clint recognized the man before him, a scrony junky named Frisco that he’d done business with on occasion. Frisco was a med-x addict, and his arms featured a litany of infected track marks that presented themselves like a rotting road map.

“Damn, don’t sneak up on me like that,” Clint lowered the shotgun to his side.

“I-I got some information for you,” Frisco said, scratching at his arms, his eyes darting left to right underneath a cracked pair of biker goggles.

“What is it this time?” Clint asked. Frisco was notorious for his information, which mostly came by the way of hearsay and was never the most reliable. Frisco fancied himself an informant, trouble was that Frisco provided information to nearly all the gangs in the city, meaning if he knew something about you, you’d better believe everyone else knew it too.

“Ahh, you know me better than that, cuz,” Frisco went on, “it’s gonna cost you some of that vitamin M if you know what I mean?” Clint pulled two syringes of med-x from his pocket, holding them at arm’s length from Frisco who pawed at them wildly.

“This better not be some bullplops, Frisco,” Clint figured Frisco’s information was maybe fifty-fifty, but even at that it was valuable enough not to pass up. He handed over the chems, Frisco quickly stuffing both syringes into his side pocket.

Clint could smell the week old funk on Frisco and imagined he didn’t smell any better as they both leaned in to get closer. Both of Frisco’s eyes pointed outward and Clint had a hard time deciding on which one to look at.

“Someone comin’ for you cuz,” Frisco said, a wry smile forming across his lips exposing his blackened teeth, “seen em up at the sheriff’s office yesterday, Indian lookin motherfluffa with a big ass huntin’ rifle.”

Clint looked immediately beyond Frisco, scanning the area quickly while returning his shotgun to the ready. This wasn't the first time Clint had been the target of a mercenary, he'd been able to avoid them to this point, but adding one more to the equation made it that much more likely that someone would find him.

As Frisco backed away, heading for the alley that ran parallel to Clint’s shanty he shouted, “Just watch yo’ plops, they got a 600 cap bounty on yo head. Wouldn't stick around here if I were you.”

 

[Mr.Self Destruct]

Christopher stepped out onto the street, glancing left and right before crossing. His eyes caught a junkie, a malnourished and decrepit looking individual staring back at him. He resembled in many ways a ghoul, with a face covered with sores and cuts, darkened bags under his eyes and greasy, disheveled hair. The junkie sunk back into an alleyway before Christopher could get a better look, gone, into the shadows.

Christopher stared at the alleyway entrance for a while, eyes narrowed. Christopher never sank that low, even at his worst. At that point, there was no chance of recovery. You let yourself fall that far on drugs, you'll hit the ground before you can climb back up. Chris shook his head, and followed the signs toward the utility stairs that would lead him to the undercity.

The conditions got progressively worse the lower he got, darkness and filth soon overcame him as he struggled to navigate the winding maze of stairs and ladders leading down. He stepped over rotting body, writhing and wriggling from the amount of maggots moving inside it. The smell hit Christopher hard, and overpowered him as he was forced to cover his face with a rag and cough. However he pressed on, further into the unknown.

He came upon a scene from hell, junkies were scattered about the filthy streets. Shanties crafted from planks and pieces of sheet metal were everywhere. Barrel fires served as the only source of light here, and even though it was high noon it felt like evening. Christopher looked around as a shot rang out in the distance, followed by the sounds of glass shattering. Further down the street was a building where several junkies were congregating, this was where he'd begin his search.

Christopher stepped into the dark shanty, before him the unconscious or inebriated bodies of junkies; strewn about the floor like trash. Two of them were violently copulating in the corner, and a group of them were huddled around a small fire; shooting Med-X. The sight of the needles made Christopher uneasy, and he had to look away. That's when he spotted the junkie with the Jet inhaler.

Chris made his way over to him, and kneeled down beside the clearly high individual. "Where did you get this?" Chris said in a hushed tone, gesturing to the inhaler in his hands. The man's head lolled loosely towards him, and Christopher's eyes widened with shock.

"Daryl?" Christopher said, standing up in disbelief. Daryl used to roll with the Fiends, as Chris did. The two were friends, and most of the time they spent with each other was doing drugs. Jet was always Daryl's big thing, and would binge for weeks; trying to constantly stay high. "Yo.. Chris, that you man?" He said in a slurred voice as he tried to stand. "How are you..?" "Oh plops man... I'm out of Jet. You have any?" Christopher's eyes narrowed, Daryl was scarcely recognizable. His face was covered with bruises, and a matted and nappy beard clung to his face. He had fallen too far, Daryl was done.

"Why'd you leave man? Why'd you fluffing desert us, brother?" Daryl's attitude took a sudden turn, his face twisted into a snarl as he balled his fists. "You leave us, then you fluffin' get the NCR and tell 'em everything and--" "What the fluff are you talking about Daryl? I left and--" "Bullplops! You fluffing maggot! You Judas son of a bitch! You betrayed us!" Daryl got right in Christopher's face, spitting as he talked. Chris furrowed his brow, angered. "I never told anyone plops, I left and that was that." "Tell that to Billy, last I heard he was still looking for you."

Christopher's eyes widened as he let go of Daryl, he stepped back, taking in what he had just heard. "How long ago was that?' "Last week, they... they" Daryl suddenly threw his arms around Christopher in a hug, and after a moment he began sobbing. "They were always so mean to me man, they always treated me like a bitch." It was true, Chris remembered fondly how badly Daryl was treated. They used him for drugs and treated him like plops in return. But all Chris could think about was Billy, the hard-ass who ran the entire gig.

Billy was brutal, he never messed around. The stuff he did, you'd think he had gone over the edge. Which he had, a very long time ago. He always killed, raped if he could, and the thought of him made Chris uneasy. "What happened last week?" Christopher said, gently pushing Daryl back. The junkie rubbed his eyes and sniveled before speaking. "We were looking for you, not far from here." Christopher's heart sank. "I knew San Fran wasn't far off, and I had to leave man. fluffing Billy was going nuts. He would've killed me man, so I fluffing ran man. Ran all the way to San Fran-fluffing-sisco man." Daryl was shaking violently, trembling with fear. "He's gone off the fluffing edge man, he wants you dead like nothing else on earth. They'll find you, and they'll find me and they... they..." "That's enough for now, Daryl."

Christopher turned around and headed back out the door, the sounds of Daryl sobbing filled the room as he stepped outside. The hit didn't matter anymore, Christopher was wanted himself.

 

[Uther Pundragon]

Jackson was strolling through the streets, singing a tune he had picked up out East, while taking in the sights of San Fransisco.

"From this wasteland they say ya goin'
We will miss your bright eyes'n sweet smile
For they say ya takin' the sunshine
That has brightened our road for'ah while..."

He was in a good mood finally and the spirits he finished off a few blocks ago only helped boost the feeling. Despite wasting his last shot on a coyote and being accosted by scabs, things seemed to be looking up the deeper he got into the city. Sure, it was still a plops hole and smelled twice as bad, but he could feel the caps that could be made here. And he planned to make some caps. Well, he planned on making more caps. Enough to buy him ammunition and booze, in no particular order. Of course his good mood quickly turned sour as he had to quickly side step out of the way from some dark skinned man, Indian of sorts by the looks of him, that was exiting from the inside of a building.

"fluffin' hell scab, why don't ya watch th'fluff ya goin'?" Jackson shouted at the man, bits of spittle spewing forth from his mouth and burring itself into his beard, some maybe even landing on unsuspecting passerby's. He took a step back and inhaled slowly, holding it, and then exhaling just as slow. He couldn't go around boot stomping everyone that manged to piss him off. Not while he was in town anyway. It was rather unproductive and would just delay him in getting drunk by even longer.

"Scabs! fluffin' cockroaches have more sense!" He shook his head and then started off back down the street, taking enough time to look back and give the man a friendly smile along with a middle finger. He wasn't sure if the man would say something back, or try something stupid. Those were the chances you took with anyone these days. Either they shrug it off or reach in their pants and find their balls in order to do something. It didn't matter to him really, long as he made it to the cantina before it became packed. He hated crowded bars.

 

[KaitoGhost]

Sunlight filtered through the dirty glass panes of the window and fell onto the face of the trader, slowly coaxing him awake. "Oh, God, my head...", he groaned, crawling out from under the soiled bedsheets. The whore was gone, probably left right after he passed out. Richard doubted that he was her last customer of the night. The trader stumbled groggily to his pack, and checked its contents. Everything was there, as he had expected. A thieving whore would be bad for the brothel's business, after all, and places like this thrived off of repeat customers. He pulled his last bottle of whiskey out, and briefly considered it, before breaking open the seal. "Hair of the dog...", he muttered to himself, before taking a drink.

Other than the bad hangover (which was only to be expected), Richard felt better. In this world, grief was not something you wanted to carry with you. It held you down, kept you from enjoying the little pleasures of life. Such as a good bottle of whiskey, a pretty girl, and a morning cigarette. Speaking of which, Richard thought to himself, as he rummaged through his bag. It didn't take him long to find a pack of smokes, his book of matches safely tucked inside. Instead of using one of the precious fire-starters, however, he lit the cigarette off of the nearly burnt out incense candle on the nightstand. A wise man conserved his resources, after all.

When the grizzled trader finished smoking, he pulled the razorblade out of the small pocket in his pack, where it was hidden. He looked into the dirt stained mirror on the bathroom wall, studying his appearance. After traveling on the road for 3 weeks, his beard had grown out, wild and fierce. It bothered him, and besides, it was too damned hot out for a beard, anyway. The water from the sink was lukewarm, at best, and the soap was covered in who knew how much grime, but they would have to do. Richard lathered his face up, and went to work.

Several minutes later, he stepped back, admiring himself in the mirror. He lightly traced the scar on his cheek with his finger, momentarily remembering how he'd gotten it. Few things in the wastelands ever truly troubled him, but he was scared to death of what had given him that scar. Richard shook his head, putting the memories out of his mind. He turned and left the bathroom, grabbed fresh undergarments from his pack, and donned his weathered old combat armor. After placing all of his belongings back into his travel pack, he pulled on his leather overcoat, and placed his sunglasses on his face. The trader swept his gaze around the room, double checking everything. Satisfied, he walked out the door, nodded to the pimp at the bar, and walked out into the day. He had work to do.

(Ooc: sorry for the short post, lack of conversation text color, and any misspellings. Posting from my phone)

 

[Hale Loneshadow]

Grinning at the girl's obvious enthusiasm, and at her achievement, Dam clapped his gloved hands in admiration. This Jessica Brown was a much more talented scientist than her parents had led on in their communications, and it seemed that being among her true peers suited her so well. Which was exactly why Damian Wynden-Pryce felt a nervous tug in the core of his stomach, knowing that the news he brought would only serve to demoralize the girl. As soon as Jessica had let off enough of her bubbly, enthusiastic steam and had calmed down enough to be able to, Damian once again s

"Well done, well done indeed!," he said in his smooth British accent, "That was some top-notch chemistry right there, Miss Brown! Now, I'm afraid I do have a bit of bad news for you , and I cannot apologize enoughfor being the bearer of bad news...but as of today, you and I are to head to The Rock in the ruins of San Francisco. You see, there have been more and more ambitious attacks by hordes of Supermutants, as well as a new group of Enclave, on the borders of New Vegas. The Enclave, however, know of my arrival through what your own Elder Macnamera thinks to be a mole in your Chapter. They also know of your recent journey and subsequent arrival here, and due to the pressing Super Mutant attacks on both the outlaying villages and Hidden Valley, I was called in to assist my old friend, your father, tasked with guiding you safely to The Rock installation. There you will be able to safely continue your research, although I realize you have become quite accustomed to being here among the Followers, and I do apologize again for this, though I have promised your father and mother...this new Enclave group is brutal and determined to wipe us off the plane of existence, even now there could be agents watching you, watching us, and we must be off, and soon," Damian finished, his voice growing quieter as he spoke, keeping a vigilant eye on the compound as he spoke to Jessica.