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 Post subject: Fallout: Lone Star (IC)
PostPosted: Mon Jan 30, 2017 7:44 pm 
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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 wasn't exactly a normal day for this bandit hideout, but it was a good day all the same. The sun seemed slightly less unbearable, the mutated and horrible beasts of the Texan wasteland had only been a slight day, the leader of the group was in a good mood, and they had captured three members of an enemy group, perfect for torturing and beating . The last things where related, the three poor souls on their knees, hands tied behind their backs, beaten and bloodied. In front of them was a large, scar covered man, wearing jagged metal armor and holding a metal bat, ready to teach people what happened when they got on his bad side.

Unfortunately for him, he never had the chance. A bullet flew through the air, meeting the back of the man's head. Then bits and pieces of the man's brain met the ground.

"That's that." The one who fired the gun said. One Jackson Mercer, who shifted from his sniping position. The rest of the group didn't matter to him, his job was only to take out the leader, and he was looking pretty damn taken out from where Jackson was laying. He was far enough away that he doubted any of the thugs would spot him, but if they did, he had plenty of bullets left. He considered the idea of helping the prisoners, but he realized they were already dead. If the bandits weren't already killing them, their wounds would soon enough. He didn't have enough medical supplies to share, sadly.

He made his way off, making sure to use any 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. Jackson sighed at the idea, the idea being the second most annoying thing he could think of. The most annoying was not being able to find the employer afterwards. "Well, not finding them at least saves a bullet, I guess."

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 felt the whole thing was quite interesting, and it reminded him of the occasional though of switching his person-hunting job for an animal-hunting job. He wasn't 100% why he didn't, to be honest, he was sure he would be good at it. Perhaps part of him, deep down, just didn't think he would be exciting enough? He pushed their thoughts out of his mind, deciding now was not the time to worry about such things. One day, maybe, but today was the day to visit his favorite building in any town that had one.

The town, like a good number of others, consisted mostly of blasted out buildings with some repair done to make them livable in. A unique touch to the town, however, was the custom to cover the outsides of the buildings with gecko hides, leading to a town full of indigo and silver, with the occasional splotch of gold. Some green and violets broke up the other colors here and there, these skins imported from hunters travelling in from other places. The color of gecko hide on the building indicated the type of building they were, but Jackson only knew gold meant places to waste your money. If he had to presume, it was to catch the eyes of tourists, of which this town had plenty.

Due to the constant source of food and food from the geckos, Gecko Plains had turned into a rather large trading hub. Not the largest in Texas, but it was third or fourth place, at best. Not only that, but one could see Houston, a shining city of technology, in the horizon. Jackson himself didn't much care about entering the large city, but a incredibly large amount of people did, and Gecko Plains was a popular place to stop during a journey to Houston. And a popular place to say when one was assuredly rejected from entering the city. Not just anybody got to get into a place that important, after all.

Jackson 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. He would buy something to drink, get wasted, and hope nothing else exciting would happen that day.


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PostPosted: Wed Feb 01, 2017 1:50 pm 
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The Houston Garrison garage was, to put it mildly, a mess. Racks for power armour under repairs lined one wall, but the shelves for parts near them were held together with duct tape, wooden spanners, and hope. The parts themselves were mostly plates for armour itself, and ceramics were hard to come by, so the shop made do with modified steel and precious titanium. Scrap wires dangled from every available protrusion. Workbenches for both guns and energy weapons were spread about haphazardly, as were the bins and jars of the supplies needed for them. In one corner stood an old style anvil with a vacuum pump forge, meant for reworking scrap into usable plates for the armour they Garrison went through. But Mac wasn't here today working on armour, as no orders had been placed. She was here for her special project, which stood on the hydraulic lift she had gotten working only last week.

She had found, after many months of fiddling and screaming at inanimate objects to cooperate, that with careful modifications she might be able to get an old rust bucket of a civilian transport vehicle from before the war working again. The frame had been stripped of almost everything, and now sat five feet above the concrete floor of the shop, surrounded by scrap metal, the defunct reactor, and tools of every imaginable variety, including a couple that even the young mechanic was not familiar with but had deemed possibly useful. The garage officer had agreed that she could work on it here, half because she was an invaluable asset to the guard some times and half because he owed her a few favours anyway. So she was currently under the monstrosity of what she had learned used to be called a Land Yacht, attempting to pry off a few remaining bars of structural reinforcement from the engine compartment. It was not going well.

The flares of her welding torch sputtered out and a stream of unintelligible words sounded from the cramped space. The blonde scooted out on her butt and flipped her goggles back onto her forehead while she glared at the acetylene tank the tool was attached to. One of the problems was that she had no idea how to make the stuff, nor how to store it, so she was stuck with whatever tanks the scroungers brought to her, and this last one had just run out. "Fine, you lazy, rotten, no-good piece of junk," she hissed at the offending object. The officer looked up from his desk. "Ain't gettin' a new one for a while, Mac. Suppliers are still on the way."

Mac stood up, dusting her denim-and-leather padded overalls off, and grinned. "S'fine, Bob. I was already fixin' ta head out today, anyhow. I gotta make a run for parts and see to that generator at one of the farms." Bob waved her off idly, a dismissive gesture that might have offended anyone else. Mac, however, had also already stopped paying attention to him, crouching down and gathering her tools into her green canvas duffel. Having accomplished that, she let her hair out of the tiny ponytail she kept it in while working, letting the outgrown bob cut free to be restrained only by her goggles. Her work boots clomped heavily as she frog-marched herself out of the main door and into the fetid Houston heat, aiming a kick at the spent fuel tank as she passed it.

Twenty minutes for lunch, another twenty for resupplying her travel bag, holstering her sidearm, and saying hello to her neighbours, and she was heading for the gates. She patted her front pocket to make sure her residency papers were still on her. The trip out to the farms was not particularly exciting, but would bring her close enough to the small town of Gecko Plains that she could excuse to herself heading there to check for new and interesting items for sale. And she even had caps to spend this time! If the generator didn't need a major repair she might even be home by tomorrow night, in time to catch the scavvies as they filtered in from the weekly hunt in the ruins of Houston proper. While Mac was aware of her own inability to survive the dangers of the ruins, full as they were of ghouls, mutants, and various other lethal conundrums, she still dreamed of heading out one day to try and find the fabled USSA facilities, somewhere on the southern end in the flooded areas.

After all, the spectrum of lifestyle in Houston was spectacular in its scope, even if a bit unfair. Those who had carved out the section of the city for livable area had profited considerably, along with the folks with the necessary knowledge to utilise the vast amount of surviving technology. The amount of power armour and robotic armaments the Garrison wielded were proof of that. And while Mac might, in some instances, be counted among those elites, she was not a scientist, but a grease-monkey, more support than advancement as it were. And so she was relegated to what mimicked the pre-War "middle class": well off enough, with steady work, but not powerful or influential even had she wanted to be. Below her own social spectrum was the various scrappers and salvagers, traders and resident merchants, who brought in valuable supplies. Farmers and ranchers fell somewhere in between the two. Then came the gunmen and mercs, then the workers and labourers, and finally those who just lived here on the edges. It worked, and Mac had no complaints. She was not of a mind to care, as it had almost nothing to do with her beloved trade, and no one bothered her about anything like what they apparently bothered her Dad with. Not that she would understand anyway.

The guards waved her through the gates without a second glance, and she stepped out onto the dry grasslands. Within about a quarter mile of the walls you were covered by snipers, and the Garrison could move pretty quick(though only when they wanted to). Outside of that range, though, all bets were off, as you could find yourself in a nasty situation right quick. Thankfully, the farm she was headed to was in a well patrolled area, and GP wasn't exactly unguarded either. Adjusting the weight of her pack, Mac headed north along the road, keeping an eye out for both danger and any overlooked scrap she could make use of.


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PostPosted: Wed Feb 01, 2017 9:52 pm 

eyy, senpai!

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Out of the hustle and bustle of the Texas wasteland's towns and settlements, things were quiet. In some parts of the desert plains, it was peaceful, nothing but warm sand and small plants for miles. Sometimes, one could hardly tell that the landscape had been formed by nuclear fire, especially in areas far outside of places that had been heavily bombarded. A long, lonesome road connected Houston to other cities in the region and stretched even further beyond, old rusty signs identifying it as Interstate 45. New signs made by the new world's inhabitants had been added as well, and just beneath an old green piece of sheet metal telling travelers the distance to Houston, a smaller second sign hung, directing people toward the nearer and much easier-accessed Gecko Plains.

Camping on the road wasn't uncommon for long distance travelers, designated areas of the road converted into simple, reusable sites by people who traveled down the 45 often. On the side of the road, against an old concrete barrier, one such constructed site was in use. The weak embers of last night's fire smoldered inside an iron tube built to hold the flames in, a few dry logs dragged onto the highway and flattened acting as simple benches around it. Nearby, a very simple tent consisting of a tarp hanging over a length of rope bustled with some movement as its inhabitant awoke. Nearby, in the space between the log bench and the highway divider, a large mole rat's head peeped out and watched the tent.

Michael parted the cloth and stepped out, his hat in his hand and his scarf pulled up over half of his face, a precaution taken in case a sandstorm hit overnight. Still in that just-woke-up state of fatigue, he tugged the scarf down and rolled his neck and shoulders, plodding over to a bench to sit on. The rat scuttled around the bench to join him up front, sitting down and resting her head on his knee. Michael gave her a few pats on the head, then placed his hat atop his own. "Mornin'," He began, pulling the duffel bag that sat nearby towards himself. "You hungry? We got a little bit of stuff left. Nothin' real fancy, but it'll keep ya goin' til we get to town."

The rat raised her head and tilted it at the mention of a familiar word, and as a pair of cans were drawn from Michael's bag, she stepped back and spun around in excitement a couple times. Michael laughed a bit, showing off the cans. "Here we go. This one's yours." A can of dog food, a brand that the rat had become quite fond of. Michael opened it with a quick few pokes from his bowie knife, then emptied it into a small tin bowl he plucked from the bag as well. While the rat ate, Michael opened his own can and ate as well.

Cleaning up the campsite was simple enough, just folding up the tent and stowing everything back into his bag. Before taking off, he put on his holsters and buckled a leather harness holding extra supplies onto the mole rat. She complained with a series of loud squeaks and hisses, but relented after a few moments. Once both of them were geared up and ready to go, they started south down the 45. Gecko Plains was the goal, a nice little place that Michael had picked some work up in before. Currently, he was on the way back from a delivery job to another settlement, making good use of his travel experience and time with the Mojave Express to make a very efficient route both on and off road. The package had been delivered, and something in exchange was being brought back. The parcel was a square box with quite some weight to it, kept safely in his bag on the journey.

Soon enough, after a good bit more of walking, Michael found himself in the hide-covered town. His target was the gold building that served people alcohol, his current employer one of the Singin' Deathclaw's staff. As Michael entered, he stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly to the people behind the bar to get their attention. "Got a delivery for Dolly here," He explained, transferring the parcel from his bag to the counter. "If y'all would be so kind to let her know I'm here, I'd appreciate it. Oh, and if you got one, I'll take a sarsaparilla."

_________________
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PostPosted: Thu Feb 02, 2017 2:20 am 
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Frank looked up as he heard a patron whistling at the bar staff, pausing momentarily on the myriad of notes he'd been taking. Noticing it wasn't anything too interesting, he tapped his pen on his worn, dusty tongue and went back to writing down his observations and various other data he'd acquired on his way here. Following the railroad worked to get him close to Houston, but he quickly realized that such a shiny, pristine city would never let his kind inside. Better for the illusion, he thought. Which was all well and good for the ignorant smoothskins, but he wasn't going to give up. He came here for their tech and he was going to get it, they had no chance of stopping him at this point. He figured the easiest way was to do some work around the area, build up a reputation as a physician, and get brought in for work. Whether as an oddity to laugh at or in an actual professional sense, he didn't much care. They can make any silly jokes they want, he's long grown above them. They really have no imagination.

One of the servers arrived with his order of some cooked Gecko with a side of Dandy Boy Apples, but quickly moved away. He noticed several other patrons pretending not to stare at him, as well. May take a while to build trust here, he thought. But again, that was fine. The one thing he was sure he had was time. At least that hasn't tried to kill him yet. He scribbled down some local gossip and tips he'd gotten from some fellow Ghouls on his way to the gaudily decorated city and ruminated on more ideas and plans on how to set up shop. He'd need to talk to an official of some sort, though based on past experiences there was rarely anything "official" about them. They'd also not taken too kindly on his brand of, on you know, saving their worthless hides from themselves more often than not. He'd decided that could wait for tomorrow and tucked into his first bit of acceptable food in a good while.

He zipped open his pack and brought out one of the medical journals he'd been getting into for a few days, an in-depth look into replacing limbs and how the body reconnected itself with the right assistance. He bit into the crunchy exterior of the Gecko and closed himself off to the rest of the bar, uninterested in anything the locals had to say. He doubted they could tell him anything new anyway. Though he placed his old, trusted Ripper on the table with him and heard a general shift of the surrounding tables away from him. Better, he thought.


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PostPosted: Thu Feb 02, 2017 1:20 pm 

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From out the darkly feral Texas evening flowed a hollow call, like a vinyl recording from an old world, accompanied by conspicuously rhythmic thumps,
like a crude drumbeat amidst the scattered, dust-encrusted pebbles.

"♫ Oh danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling.
Hmm-hmm hmm-hmm, The summer's gone, and all the roses falling. ♫"

The mangy ears of a dog perked up, agitated it moved from its vigil on the porch, as the upsetting element came into view it started to snarl and bark viciously
with a full maw of bared teeth, as if trying to rip chunks out of the very air.
It cautiously and menacingly moved in on the advancing figure, soon it was just meters away.
A loud bullet went through the skull of the dog and silenced it in the blink of an eye.

A faint rectangle of light expanded as the door to the weather-beaten farmhouse flung open, revealing a male figure in rough overalls, with a bushy, unkempt beard.
He now hurried towards the racket, planted his gaze on the ground, on the canine in the pool of crimson that grew with its body as center.

"Kenny! ****!"

"Old boy had caught a nasty case of hydrophobia, i had to put him down don't you know. Regrettable when a beloved family member is snatched away."
Replied the metallic man, in a cheery, empathetic yet unmistakably inhuman tone.

The unnatural sight shook the man up. It was in the shape of a man, not roughly, but in the way a detailed tin soldier is.
The features were sculpted rather than crude and blocky, and the thing wore an elaborate and fancy attire the likes of which surely could not be found outside Houston.

"What in the hells are yew!? Git away from mah damn house ya damn machine!"

The man raised his twin barrels but his resolve wavered for a brief moment while the automaton mechanically raised its right arm in response.

The bullet impacted into the forehead of the man, who fell heavily forwards on top of the slaughtered animal.
A shadow swept by on Finklejocks left flank, carrying a strangled whimper or cry, but he paid it little mind, and continued towards the quaint house.

"Three little maids from school are we. Pert as a school-girl well can be. Filled to the brim with girlish..."

The thunder of two shotgun barrels roared forth from about five meters behind Finklejock's back.
An instant later the round hail slammed against the metallic chassis with a sharp, ear-slicing cacophony and sparks flashing like imp's teeth.
Finklejock planted his right foot forcefully into the dirt mid-step to counterbalance the force.

"Blast! Anarchist ambush!" The unwieldy metal frame turned around little by little.
The content-looking, mustached and monocled mask faced the terrified woman whose visage in turn seemed to drain of its color with every passing second.
She feverishly turned the pockets of her late husband inside out, hoping for her fingers to pass over two more shells.



A muffled bang.



The floorboards creaked as the figure invited itself.
"Hmm, it has a sort of rural charm i suppose. Oh!"
Finklejock carefully restored to an upright position a chair that seemed to have been roughly disturbed just recently.
He moved his doll-jointed fingers to his face as if to reposition his optical lens monocle and fixed his gaze on the little one that scurried across the room in a wide circle,
like a weasel desperately trapped in a corner.

"Ooh, you needn't be afraid of me, i'm no highwayman, cross my heart. Your father invited me over for tea. Uhm... Are you all alone here? Where are your parents then?"
He turned clumsily, attempting to keep up with the little creature that now made an unimpeded dash towards the half open door, abandoning her only possession in sheer terror.
In pursuit he burst through the opening into the cool desert air.

"Little miss forgot her Teddy! Don't run off! The woods aren't safe! There's bound to be wolves and bandits about! Little miss!"
Finklejock impotently extended the worn teddy towards the darkness that closed around the petite body.

"How dreadful."
The automaton exclaimed. It halted, processed for a brief moment.
"Can't have a little girl running around in the wilderness all on her own, i have to follow her, yes, no other recourse."

He began his tireless march anew, into the uncharted darkness that had swallowed the girl, the rough ground crunching under the heavy footfalls.

"♫...It's you, It's you, must go, and I must bide... ♫"



The ghostly tune melded with the night.


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PostPosted: Sun Feb 26, 2017 4:08 am 
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"Give 'em two!" Jackson said, slapping a number of bottle caps onto the table. In the short time he had been in the bar, he had already gotten quite buzzed, and he liked the look of the delivery man who had just came through the door. Granted, Jackson didn't KNOW he was a delivery man, but he was obviously a working man, and Jackson appreciated a man willing to do honest work for his bread. Also a cute looking mole rat had followed him in, and something about it gave Jackson some great amusement. It was probably it's little harness, that was it. Still, that was enough for his drunk ass to decide he liked the guy. "One for the road never hurt nobody." He said, nodding towards Michael.

"This is the fifth person who has walked through the door you've paid for in the last hour, guy." The bartender pointed out, picking the package up from the counter. "Thanks, I'll make sure she'll gets it. Then I'll get you your sarsaparillas, please wait a moment." he said, heading off, entering a door located behind the bar. The entire building was filled with yelling, drunks and idiots getting into arguments. Not helping was the absolute stench filling the room, and high temperature from so many bodies in a single room, all equaled to a place that seemed to be an absolutely dreadful place to spend your time to normal people. But, oddly enough, for the most part there was a feel of people having a good time, despite all that. Place must had had good bear!

"So, stranger, what brings you here?" Jackson asked, turning towards Michael. Little conversation never hurt anybody.

----

On the outskirts of Gecko Plains, a man was pounding on the side of a green-covered building, placing up a flyer with hammer and nail. Once the pounding shaped, the man stepped back, shaking his head and walking off. "Not getting paid enough for this, nobody is going to ready these things. And if they do, no way in hell are they going to go." He muttered, bending down and picking up a stack of flyers, walking off to place them on more buildings. His words were foolish, as he did this job only for the bottle caps, so he knew men would do worthless things if they got paid for it. So it only made sense that many would read these flyers, since "300 caps" were in quite large print. As for the rest of the flyer?

"Wanted! Able-bodied workers who are willing to face danger for great reward! Human, mutant, ghoul, or synth does not matter! If you can shoot, you are welcomed! Come to the Gecko Plains Grand Theater today at 5'o'clock to hear about the job! Payment of up to 300 caps, with more job opportunities in the future!"


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PostPosted: Wed Mar 01, 2017 11:13 pm 
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The general mood in the bar only got rowdier as time went on, causing Frank to look up from his book with a look that could even cause the Devil some discomfort. He snapped the tome closed and gathered his things, sliding the Ripper into it's harness on his belt, causing those around him to visually relax. He picked up the remainder of his supplies and left a few caps for the server. Can't hurt to start building a good reputation, he thought. He quickly made his way out, not wanting to listen to anymore drunken yelling from one particularly loud source, and stepped onto the street. As he did, he noticed a man hanging something onto a nearby building.

Frank walked over casually, feigning interest in his surroundings as he neared the man with a rather large stack of papers. The man moved on soon after and Frank glanced at what he was working on. Some work, huh? The 300 caps didn't interest him too much, but the promise of future work was interesting...he'd rather not be recognized as a mercenary, but even they need a medic. He doubted anyone nearby could fill the position, so he thought it his civic duty to apply. Instead of the fools getting themselves killed, he'd make a bit of profit towards setting up his clinic and, more importantly, a step toward his reputation as a physician. Not a bad deal, Frank thought. It's not like he'd just let anything kill him either, especially when he's so close...

Frank glanced at the sky and figured he had a couple hours at least until the meeting time, so he decided to try and find some lodging somewhere. There must be an Inn of some description in this backwoods stretch of desert.


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View Likes PostPosted: Mon Mar 06, 2017 10:37 pm 
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Mac stopped just at the edge of Gecko Plains, setting her backpack down and extracting a water bottle from it. She raised it to her lips and took a long draught of what she was told was clean water. Some people she had talked to before had claimed they could taste when water was 'dirty' with rads, but everything Mac every drank tasted metallic and stale, regardless of where it was supposedly gotten from. Probably something to do with storage tanks. As she lowered the bottle and looked around, her dark brown eyes caught a glance of two men nearby. One was walking off with a bundle of papers, but the other was looking at some sort of poster. Feeling curious after her day of explaining what, to her, were really very simple concepts about pressure and metal stresses brought on by heat and time without maintenance, perhaps looking for conversation that was not about livestock, Mac hitched her bag back onto her shoulders and sauntered on over. At least as much as she ever could saunter.

Aside from the reality that the little blonde Latina-descended girl was about as nonchalant as a dog chasing after a molerat, Mac had on her very favourite work vest, attached to which was a variety of straps, loops, and pockets, so much so that it was nearly impossible to tell what the original vest might have looked like. Unhelpfully on that account, nearly every piece of well sewn cloth, stitched leather, or bracketed metal was different in composition and age, not to mention colour. The whole piece of clothing looked like a patchwork quilt that had been run through an armoury. Hanging from loops were a hammer, wrench, set of pliers, a small cutting torch, and a functioning radio that Mac didn't know any channels to call people on. Inside the pockets were various screws, bolts, cards, a few caps, scraps of raw material, a lead-lined box for radioactive substances, and other bits and bobs. Straps attached a roll of duct tape near her hip and her 9mm pistol. Since neither her boots nor her leather pants had anything attached, given her looks, most people assumed she was a merchant with everything she owned attached to her. The end result was cacophonous to both ears and eyes, and she rattled and jingled with every step.

This noisy entrance brought her closer to the man looking at the poster, who looked like he was probably a ghoul, wearing a lab coat. The man looked to be moving off, so Mac sidled up to where he had been and took in the poster at a glance. While she had no interest at all in shooting things for money, depending on the location there might be decent salvage available, and possibly even cash from the others for fixing their stuff. Aside from that, she always liked meeting people, and curiosity reared up in her mind and reminded her that this might be a company, too, in which case she could get info for her father at the same time. Having determined all of that, she nodded to herself and headed over to the local watering hole, where she might find a shot and someone needing her expertise.


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View Likes PostPosted: Tue Mar 14, 2017 6:44 pm 

eyy, senpai!

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A smile crossed Michael's face when Jackson paid off his drink and then some. A little bit of charity was always nice, especially after such a long trek. "Well, thank you kindly sir," Michael said as he further adjusted his bag, taking it off of his back so that he could sit more comfortably. Being bought a drink was always a nice conversation hitch, from his experience, and the fellow with the rough-looking face seemed to be in a damn good mood. Probably the alcohol.

Michael managed to ignore the smell of alcohol, sweat, and other various unpleasantries, as it wasn't the worst thing he'd caught a whiff of that week. Rotting mutants left in the desert sun made the bar's rankness seem like an air freshener in comparison. When he got to Jackson's table, he pulled out two chairs and sat himself down in one, placing his bag on the floor next to him. The mole rat shuffled her way up into the other one. Michael removed his hat after sitting, placing it on the table as he answered Jackson's inquiry.

"Delivery. That's what it usually is goin' through here. People need to get things somewhere, they'll pay ya good to do it. Today's was somethin' or other for a fridge, I think. Never knew much about machines." Michael shrugged a little. The intricacies of technology weren't his forte, but someone needed a box of heavy parts trucked across the wastelands, and he was willing and able to make the delivery. "As of right now, I'm mostly thinkin' about stayin' here a bit. She'd get all fussy if we had to walk anymore today." He pointed to his mole rat, who was watching the men speak with some interest. After his answer, he decided to ask Jackson something similar. "How 'bout you? What led ya here?"

-----

Outside, a very large figure clad in metal and a tarp was approaching town, his heavy steps leaving deep prints in the dry sands. He appeared covered in mechanical contraptions, but much of it was simply the reshaped plates of fallen robots. Sergei, or Surge as he more commonly went by, had decided to stop by this small town on his journey through the wastes. Surely it would be a decent enough place to rest after a long trek. From what he knew, this town wasn't too hostile to post-humans either, and that was mostly reinforced when he entered the town's border. No guns were pulled on him - a vast improvement over the last town he went to - but some still gawked at him as he walked past, though their stares were swiftly broken when he turned his head to make eye contact with them.

Silently, he moved along the busier paths to survey the town's layout and see where people were going. He knew not of the settlement's color-coded gecko hide decor, and found it rather bizarre to hang so many lizard skins on the outer walls. Whoever founded the place must have had some strong interest in aesthetics, he figured. As he came upon the Singin' Deathclaw, he raised his goggles off his eyes and examined the golden gecko scales. It couldn't have been the easiest thing to do, given that those kinds of geckos could give someone radiation poisoning if they got close enough.

While he was about to see what the building's deal was, as he turned, he took note of a ghoul nearby scoping out some flyers on a nearby wall. He seemed more interesting than most of the others he'd seen thus far. Post-humans were often easier to talk to for him. With that in mind, he turned and walked along towards Frank, stopping to examine the flyer first. The job seemed promising, and the lack of discrimination in the offer was nice as well. It was worth considering, at least.

Surge turned to look down at Frank, trying to think of how to start the conversation. It had been a good while since he'd spoken to someone face to face. A simple question started it off. "You are from here?"

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View Likes PostPosted: Thu Mar 16, 2017 7:24 pm 
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Frank was making his way towards one of the larger garishly decorated buildings when a shadow passed over him. He looked up and noticed the rather large and imposing figure of a Super Mutant. He sniffed derisively. Super Mutants have never been a real issue, most thinking themselves kin with him. He's worked on several in the past and learned he gained a sort of standing in some circles of them because of it. He didn't mind them too much, though the majority were loud and a little on the moronic side of the spectrum, he still found them to be good company. Not for conversation, but they do scare away most annoyances. The giant seemed to be lost in thought for a time before relaying his question. His accent, though garbled by the mutation, sparked a memory in the toxic lump that was once Frank's mind. He sounded vaguely Russian, like a young assistant at the old lab. Dimitri was the name, he thinks. Frank shook his head.

"Thankfully no, my friend I come from far to the east. New York. Heard of it? Empire State Building,The Knicks, no? Eh, never mind." Frank looks the mutant up and down, eyeing all the welded plates and the highly technological weaponry. He noticed that all this painted this one as something more than the common ones he's dealt with in the past. Interesting. "I'm Dr. Franklin R. Stein and yes, yes, I am aware. What do you go by, my friend?"


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View Likes PostPosted: Sat Mar 25, 2017 1:57 am 
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"Radioactive as a tv tow-" the radio cut out as Katherine powered down her pip-boy, her left hand lingered on the power button for a moment. A bark snapped her attention back to her surroundings, her traveling companion wagging his tail happily as he barked again. "What did ye find, Shep?" She said, tugging her scarf down off her face and pulling it free from the rest of her clothes. "Let's hope it's something good for the both of us," tying the scarf around her pip-boy she walked over to the excited german shepard. "What is it boy? Come on, show me." The dog bark happily once more and turned away from the woman, pointing his nose towards a town full of multi-colored buildings. "Huh, ye don't see that every day. That must be Gecko Plains that trader told us about, what'd ye think boy?" The dog barked once more and ran off towards the town. "Alright, don't get too far away, I don't got a gun to save yer arse with."

Following Shep lead Katherine to a old telephone pole just outside of the town, with a page of paper flapping in the wind barely hanging off it. She slowed to a stop to allow herself a second to pluck it off the pole. Looking over it she noticed it was a flyer for a job someone needed done, the 300 caps offered at the top piqued her interest. Though not having a fire arm to shoot might hamper the deal. "What do ye think, Shep? Should we go check this out? I think it's a good lead fer work. Yeah, hell, let's do it," Looking up at the sky she mumbled under her breath. "Looks like we got some time to kill, how about we find waterin' hole to wet our tongues? Just make sure to stick close while in town, boy." She started forward again folding the flyer and slipping it into her bag.

It took her admittedly a little too long to decide on a place to try, settling on a place called the "Singin' Deathclaw", a garish building covered in gold gecko hides. "Here looks like a good place as any, aye boy? Just be good in there." Kat whispered down to Shep as she entered the building. The smell of cheap alcohol and sweat hit her nose like a punch to the face. Looking around the bar Kat decided a place at the bar might be the best spot to actually sit. As she stepped through the bar itself towards an open stool she took in the sights, particularly a pair of men sitting at a table with a mole rat. Finally finding and sitting at an open stool she snapped to get the bartender's attention. "Good afternoon, can I get a bottle of whiskey? I got an itch in my throat." After a few moments the bartender handed her an unopened bottle of whiskey and she handed over the caps her requested in return. Katherine quickly popped the lid off the bottle and pushed it to her lips, tipping it back she took a few large gulps as if she were trying to down the bottle in one sitting. After a bit she stopped and placed the bottle down, closing the lid back onto it. "Let's get ye some too, boy" she said before pulling out a small tin bowl from the bag at her side and placing it down on the ground. She then pulled out a small bottle of water and poured some into the bowl for Shep.


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View Likes PostPosted: Sat Apr 15, 2017 3:31 am 
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"Hmm. I'm here to get payment for a job I did. Nothing as nice and helpful as giving people things they need, mind ya'. Let's not talk about it, wouldn't wanna mess up the good atmosphere we have, do we?" While it was true that killing a bandit leader wasn't exactly bad in anybody's books, killing in it's self was still a nasty, nasty job, and Jackson didn't want ruin the general good mood of the conversation. He was drunk, but he wasn't stupid enough to not know saying you kill people for a living wasn't a thing you said in polite company."That said, thinking of leaving here for another reason, get a job I'm not quite used to. Would be good to expand my horizons, I think." It was true, as he was fine with exchanging one man's life for his money, but would he be later on in life? Probably, but still. Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, but he would prefer to waste his time learning a skill now, than waste around doing nothing later on.

These thoughts were soon replaced with more pressing matters, however. The matter of "holy **** look at that dog." He noticed the canine walking up to the bar with a woman he presumed was it's master, and he would have slammed some more money down to pay for her drink, because man did he like dogs, and those who owned them were probably alright. Same with the select few who had Molerats for pets, which he realized was why he had probably taken a quick liking to Michael. Problem was, as he reached into his pocket for more bottle caps, he had found he was out of money. "Ah hell." He muttered, grunting in annoyance. He had wisely set aside some for necessaries, but it was annoying to have run out of spending money already. He wasn't even tipsy yet! "Looks like I might be finding myself a new job earlier than I thought. They say it pays to be friendly, but it seems to me it costs ya sometimes." He figured he could easily get a job here, without much searching, but it didn't occur to him of the possibility of the opportunity walking up right next to him.

The man who was putting up the flyers outside strolled up to the counter, his face telling all who looked at him he currently hated his life and everything about it. "Hey, can I put one of these damn flyers up on your building? Some sort of advertisement for a job or s-HEY!"

As soon as the man said job, Jackson pulled one of the flyers out of his hand and placed it on the bar's count, so that Micheal could have read it if he had liked. Jackson himself quickly scanned it over, and he was quite pleased with what he red. He was able-bodied, he could shoot, he was reasonable sure he would want future job opportunities, and he was DAMN sure he wanted 300 caps. "Well buddy, I thank you for bringing this to my attention. I would buy you a drink, if I hadn't already brought drinks for damn near every person who walked into the bar since I got here. Tell me ya name, partner, so I can pay you back later."

"Give me back my flyer and stop talking to me." The man answered, giving Jackson a look of absolute annoyance as he snatched the flyer off of the bar.

"Fair enough!" Jackson smiled back at the man, sitting back down. A few of the other occupants of the bar gave him some looks, as he was being especially loud, but he didn't much care. "Well then, looks like I got me a new job already. There's probably a decent life lesson here. Waste all your money at a bar, and you'll get more money, or something like that."


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View Likes PostPosted: Thu Apr 20, 2017 9:09 pm 

eyy, senpai!

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Michael nodded, understanding Jackson's desire not to get too far into what his job was. There was messy business out there in the wastes, and taking care of it could be even messier. "No sir, we certainly do not," He responded, leaning back casually in his chair. "Can't say you're wrong there. Folks always appreciate someone with a lotta skills under their belt. Good to just have the knowledge to do new stuff, too. Ya never know when you'll need to do somethin' out of your comfort zone. This one time, me and my buddy, we were-" He was about to go on about a time he and an old companion had needed to improvise skills neither were masters at once, but Jackson turned away to look at the newcoming woman's dog, and Michael ended up doing the same.

Dogs were good, good things. Friendly, smart, and unconditionally loving if you treated them right, and they were exceptionally useful on the trail too. Michael did love his molerat, but she couldn't listen worth a damn sometimes. Not so say dogs couldn't be stubborn, but his rodent in particular was a whiner. With his background, Michael had learned to love animals of all sorts, and dogs were up there on the list of most loveable things in the world already. Without realizing how much of a big, goofy smile he had on his face, he leaned over a bit and offered his hand to Shep, hoping to be able to pet him. "Hey there, boy. How ya doin'?"

As he gave the dog a pat on the head, he turned to look at the flyer Jackson nabbed, reading it with great interest. 300 caps was nothing to laugh at, and Michael could shoot pretty damned well, and his body was indeed able. "I'll have to tag along and see just what's goin' on with this job. Maybe I'll join ya," he replied to Jackson. "And hey, maybe it ain't such a waste. With the funds you've given these folks, maybe they can afford some ventilation for this place."

He withdrew his hand from Shep's head after a few moments of pets, straightening himself back up in his seat afterwards. Speaking to Katherine, he smiled and motioned toward Shep as he began to speak. "You've got a real nice dog there, ma'am. What's his name?" He glanced down at him while asking that, but then took notice of Katherine's outfit, or at least the parts visible from beneath the layers of cloth she had atop it. The familiar bright blue and yellow stripes of a vault jumpsuit were easily visible, and while the paint job made him unsure at first, he was pretty sure one of the things on her arms was a pip-boy. Michael had never owned one himself, but he'd been to a vault or two back in the Mojave. Of them, Vault 21 had been the only visit he'd enjoyed much at all.

While he was busy with Katherine and Shep, Michael's mole rat wiggled her way out of her chair and approached Shep as well, apparently intent on seeing just what this other creature was. She sat down near him and made some curious sounds, very quiet chirps and sniffling sounds that were odd, but clearly not hostile. She sat up on her hind legs after that, focusing on the three people around her, waiting to see what they were doing.

-----

Surge paused for a while, considering what Frank had told him of. New York was a name that was vaguely familiar, like something he had heard in a past life, long before what the world was like now. Did he pass through there once, perhaps? Or maybe he'd just seen a poster of it, or a film featuring the city. It was hard to remember, and thinking about it too long made his head start to hurt. Instead of giving a verbal answer as to whether he knew it, he simply grunted, unsure of if he had or not.

Luckily for him, the conversation moved on as Frank gave an introduction, prompting the larger mutant to respond in turn. "I am Sergei. I was called Surge by my..." He once again halted his speech, not wanting to speak of his days in a super mutant army. When he thought of something that was a satisfactory replacement, he finished off with that. "My old gang, let us say. Most of them could not say my name right. It stuck." He offered Frank a handshake, though seemed to reconsider it after remembering his hand was much larger. Since Frank wasn't from around here, he followed up with another question about his presence. "Why do you come here, to this place? There is something here? Or just passing through?"

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PostPosted: Thu Apr 27, 2017 7:42 am 
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Frank noticed the slight pause his new companion had before speaking of his old gang, and figured it was a touchy subject. No sense prodding it then. Not yet. Besides, it's not like he didn't have a checkered past either, at this point. Sergei, hmm? Definitely Russian then. Frank wasn't big on his world culture, but he assumed it at least sounded Russian so he went with it. More to the point, he was pleasantly surprised by the man's way of speaking, much better than other Super Mutants he'd had run ins with. This was a good sign, he thought. The man knew electronics judging from his weaponry, and could fix and maintain it all himself, judging from the patch jobs done to his armor. The more Frank thought about it, the more he felt that he was right in thinking Sergei was different from the more common mutant in some respect. It was always good to have companions in new places and he doubted anyone else would fall in with him so easily.

"Well, Sergei, or Surge if you prefer it, I was planning on getting into the main city of Houston a few miles from here, but considering the state of it, figured they wouldn't take in a dusty old Ghoul with nothing to his name other than a hobby in making sure people don't die as often. So, I decided I would try and set up a practice here. There's a flyer for a job that says it'll pay a handsome 300 caps and lead to more jobs in the future. I'm not what most people would call able-bodied, but I doubt anyone in this throw rug of a city knows their radius from their ulna, so they'd have to take me on, I figure. I figure also that they'd take you as well, being as you are. You can accompany me if you'd like, if you're staying for the moment. Not sure what else there is here for people like us, anyway. Must stick together, yes?"

Frank patted Surge amiably on the arm and bent to retrieve his bag. "I'm looking for a place to rest for the moment. The meeting for the job still has hours yet and I'd like to rest whatever feet I have left for a few of them, at least. We can meet up later, merea. I hope to see you there. There are flyers all around the town if you'd like to see them for yourself." And in so saying, he turned around an headed down the path towards some of the more "decorated" buildings in search of lodging. A Super Mutant, and an intelligent one at that. Maybe luck is turning me a favor, he thought.


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