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 Post subject: Fallout: Lone Star
PostPosted: Thu Feb 11, 2016 12:08 am 
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War. War never changes.

The end of the world happened in a blink of an eye. In 2077, in a mere two hours, life on earth was near extinguished, atomic flames washing over the planet, removing any unfortunate enough to be caught in the blasts. Life as humanity knew it had ended, replaced with something far worse.

It is now the year 2285, and humanity has struggled to resemble a shadow of it's former self. In an otherwise lawless and deadly land, a few safe havens of civilization have appeared. The city of Houston being one such place, becoming one of the closest things the wasteland has to a bustling metropolis. Using parts from the local space center, it has become a solar powered paradise, a city of the future. A place a person can live a life of peace and safety.

Life in Houston is about to change.

Mysterious kidnappings plaguing larger towns, a mysterious cult-like group with talks of "making Texas strong", and two once powerful groups becoming allies, misfortune is coming to Texas, and countless other troubles. Conflict is looming over the horizon, and the people of the wasteland are caught right in the middle.

------
It was an less than average day for this gang hideout, though a good day despite. The sun was out, the horrible mutated beasts of the Texan wasteland had only been a slight pain, their leader was happy, and they had captured two members of a rival gang! Those last two were related, the two poor souls on their knees, hands tried behind their backs, beaten and bloodied already. And in front of them, one quite pleased gang leader, about to give any rivals a message about what happens when they mess with him or his gang.

Sadly for him, the message never came, as a sniper shot flew through the wasteland and hit its target true, splattering the leader's brains across the ground.

"That's that." One Jackson Mercer said, standing up from his sniping position. The rest of the thugs didn't matter to him, he was paid to kill their leader and kill the leader he did, so he was gone. He doubted any of them would spot him, considering the distance he was at, but if they did he would handle them as they came. He gave pause to the idea of helping the prisoners, but soon realized if the thugs didn't kill them, their wounds would. And the sniper had no supplies to help with that.

He strolled off, making sure to use rock outcroppings to hide himself, keeping to any shade he could. The less people saw him, the better. People were nothing but trouble most of the time, and meeting somebody out of civilization usually meant they wanted his time or money, both of which were things he quite liked to keep for himself. Some people might have called that greedy, but he called it saving himself a headache.

As to where he was heading, there was a town nearby. Decently sized, it was a place he could buy supplies and a place to sleep, then head on out. And get paid, if his employer hadn't decided to be clever and run out. At this thought, Jackson let out a sigh. The only thing that got on his nerves more than that, which already **** him off a great deal, was him not being able to find them afterwards.

After about a hour of walking, he entered the town. Gecko Plains, he thought it was called. Most likely due to nearby planes full of geckos, he presumed, and somebody not quite understanding the concept of homonyms. An old plane graveyard, where decommissioned planes went to rest. Some geckos found the place and felt it was a mighty fine place to make some nests. Turns out, they were right, and the local population exploded.

This, of course, brought hunters. Then people to sell to the hunters. Then the families of the shopkeepers, and a town formed. Since then, the hunting had been regulated to keep the gecko population healthy enough to survive, makings sure hunters never stopped coming. A pretty good deal for all parties. Geckos get protected, hunters get skins, and the town stays alive.

Jackson, for his part, thought this whole thing was quite interesting, and reminded him of the occasional thoughts of switching his person-hunting job for an animal-hunting job. He pushed those thoughts out of his mind, as he headed towards his favorite building in the town. Maybe one day, but he was too comfortable with his way at the moment.

The town, like a good number of others, consisted mostly of blasted out buildings with some repair done to make them livable in. A nice touch, however, was the custom to cover the outsides of the buildings with gecko pelts, leading to a town full of indigo and silver, with splotches of gold. Some greens and violets were also thrown into the mix, but these were imported from hunters travelling in from other places. The color of the pelts covering the building meant something, but Jackson only knew that gold meant shops of some sort. More likely to catch the eyes of tourists, he presumed.

He opened the door to the "Singin' Deathclaw", noise and the smell of cheap alcohol blasting him in the face as he did. He smiled, home at last.


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 Post subject: Re: Fallout: Lone Star
PostPosted: Tue Feb 23, 2016 8:01 pm 

eyy, senpai!

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A warm sun washed the dusty wastelands of Texas with the morning light. The cool air, lightly fogged from the wind blowing over the bay, blanketed distant horizons in a soft, cloudy haze. Dew lightly clung to what plants there were, and the soft wind whistled in near silence. It was very still, even peaceful, despite the desert's birth in nuclear flames. For a while, the only movement was that of a dry ball of plant matter, rolling along a broken road in the wind. It careened off the side of the cracked asphalt, tumbling through the sand and towards a rocky outcropping, directly into the side of a sleeping mole rat.

Surprised, the mole rat rolled over and away, lowering the front half of her body and letting out a defensive screech. With fangs bared, she surveyed the landscape, a low growl in her throat until she realized nothing was there. Instead, she huffed and angrily bumped at the tumbleweed with her head. Her screech evidently woke up some company, as some shuffling behind a sandy tarp hanging off the rock, which was soon pushed aside as a much larger, human figure stepped out.

"What's the matter?" Michael asked, sleepily pulling his scarf off from its resting position over his nose and mouth. It had been tied up higher, just in case a sandstorm hit overnight. "Nothin' out here but tumbleweeds." He knelt next to the agitated rodent, who proceeded to walk forward and stand up, resting her forepaws on his leg. "Ya big sissy," Michael teasingly said, scratching her right under her chin for a few moments. While idly petting his companion, he removed his hat and wiped a forearm across his forehead, looking around the area just in case something was nearby. All looked clear, so he nudged the animal off his leg and stood, rolling his neck and shoulders with a slightly exaggerated-sounding yawn.

"So we headin' out?" He asked, putting his hat back on as he looked back down at his pet, who was simply watching him curiously. "I'll take that as a yes. C'mon, help pack up." Of course, mole rats weren't very efficient packers, but talking to the creature was both entertaining and a helpful distraction from the isolation of a lonesome road. He cleaned up his little sleeping alcove, taking down the tarp and stuffing everything neatly into the duffle bag that rested nearby. He put it on, alongside his gun belts, and took a moment to stretch his legs out. While he did that, the molerat did help as much as she could, kicking sand behind her and onto the smoldering embers of their campfire.

"C'mere, put your backpack on," Michael commanded, getting a hiss in return. "Don't give me that ****, you know this is your job when we're walkin'. Now c'mere." He firmly spoke, and the rat relented, allowing him to put on a leather harness that covered her back, secured between her front legs and around her neck. Pouches on the sides were filled with various useful items, and some tools were strapped to her back. A small spade, a claw hammer, and a screwdriver all sat in small loops built into the harness. It was clearly a very useful little garment. Now that she was properly dressed, Michael gave her another pat on the head, and the two were off.

For a long while, the walk was uneventful. No hostile wildlife was encountered, merely a few non-mutated birds flying around, and at one point a tiny radscorpion hardly bigger than a foot, crossing the road that they walked. The molerat swiftly caught and ate it with little trouble. Michael kept a hand on his shotgun's sling at all times, ready to move it forward in case of trouble, yet none came. Eventually, something caught his eye: a ruin of what appeared to be a bar, flanked by some other small buildings. While he doubted there would still be too much left inside after all this time, it was always worth a look around.

Moving his shotgun forward, he moved the sling out of the way and worked the lever, moving a fresh shell into the previously empty barrel. With the weapon's stock against his shoulder, he opened the door and peered into the building. Nobody was inside, and things seemed surprisingly untouched. There were some overturned tables and chairs, as well as broken glass around some, but nothing that suggested anyone was still around. Slowly, he opened the door fully, gripping his gun's stock as he stepped forward into the bar. His spurs jingled against the hard wooden floor, which would surely have alerted someone in the immediate area. Nobody leaped out of the corners to attack, nor did any alarms go off. Before he put his guard down, he closed the door and strode over to the bar's actual counter, peering over to make sure nobody hid behind it.

"Safe," He affirmed. The shotgun was slung over his shoulder once again, resting stock upwards vertically on his back. He invited himself behind the bar, lifting the tabletop that separated the back from the seating. On the way in, he eyed what looked like a music stage, a small raised platform that housed an empty chair, microphone stand, and a busted electric guitar. Useful scrap for later. Entering the space between the bar and the wall of drinks, he ran a finger over various bottles, various sorts of alcohol kept closed with holders or completely unopened. He considered taking one or two, but for now, something else caught his eye.

The unmistakable brown bottle and tan label of sunset sarsaparilla, something he hadn't had since his time in Nevada. Immediately, he opened the nonfunctional cooler it rested in, and took the bottle. A quick check of the cap confirmed it was still completely sealed. While probably not as well-carbonated as it was when it was made, there was still something of a chance for it to be nice and fizzy. Bracing himself, he twisted the cap off, and that oh-so-beautiful hiss of pressure escaping the bottle was music to his ears. A smile crossed his face, and without wasting another moment, he turned the bottle bottoms-up and drank. His molerat, blissfully unaware of the amazing find, simply hopped up into a booth seat and sniffed around at the table.

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 Post subject: Re: Fallout: Lone Star
PostPosted: Wed Mar 02, 2016 9:23 pm 
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Delilah winced as a bullet blew through the corner of the wall she leaned against, spraying dust across the rack in front of her. In a crouched position, she leaned around the corner and fired three rounds at random with a captured shotgun, roaring as she did, "Ah, come on you yella-bellied scum-suckers! Not one of you's got the guts ta take me!" She ducked her arms back down as another hail of rounds hit all around the door, and the raiders outside threw vile insults back. She spat out brick dust and stared at the ceiling of the run-down gas station entrance. "If you're up there, God, now would be an excellent time to intercede."

The station was one of those Santa Fe style affairs, though 'Lilah had no idea that's what it was called. The adobe building had survived the War relatively unscathed, as it was well away from pre-War cities. The bullets spanging off of the walls were not helping, though, and age had cracked what nuclear fallout had not, so her shelter was only temporary at best. Already some of the rounds were making their way through, though with little energy to spare. The beleaguered woman glanced around at what had shortly before been her triumphant and swift victory.

Five dead raiders were propped sitting against the far wall, ammo and guns stripped off of them earlier as she had cleaned up. Behind the useless-as-cover counter were two settlers' mutilated bodies. She was going to bury them as she had planned, assuming she made it out of this alive. Between the counter and the door were three racks, forming two aisles that the former employees could look down to see people coming in. She had already looted what little was left of the foodstuffs and tools, and the particle board sheets that formed those were as useless as the glass counter for stopping bullets, not to mention them framing her for more than ten feet for the men outside. Next to her was an empty assault rifle, two pump-action shotguns, and a pile of shells and loose 9mm rounds. Sighing, she reached into her satchel and pulled out her lone frag grenade.

She estimated at least five outside, maybe as many as eight, hiding behind the gas pumps and concrete islands that formed two rows of very effective cover from her. At least some enterprising soul had boarded up the windows, fat lot of good though it was doing her now. She peeked around the corner of the doorway and gauged her throw, then ducked back as the next round of pot shots hit the wall. One round grazed her cheek and she cursed her stupidity.

The mayor who had hired her said there were only four of the bastards, though the weaklings who made up the settlement seemed rather more interested in paying the raiders off than fighting, despite having three-to-one odds. She should have expected them to lie, and she should have watched the place for the day, as was her usual habit, but it had seemed an easy job and she had become lax in her hunting as of late. She had just finished stripping the bodies and was going outside to breath air free of cordite smoke when the rest of the gang had ambled back up to their hideout. She had killed two in the ensuing confusion before they had gathered their wits and cornered her.

She gripped the slide of her pistol with her teeth and cocked it, the gripped it in her main hand. One last breath, and then she blindly threw the grenade, aiming for the centre of the pumps. There was the clink of it hitting the ground and the sound of it bouncing and rolling, followed by shouts of alarm. She grinned and stepped out and up, pistol in a marksman's grip, and began firing on the enemy.


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