Fandom Fallout: Beyond the Sea

[spacepirate]

War. War never changes.

The islands were no stranger to conflict- from the very first humans who set foot upon those white-and-green sand beaches, blood was shed. Spilled first by spears and arrows, then again from gunpowder, and still later from flames that burned so hot and so long that there was not a drop of blood for the earth and sea so much as taste. Rather than the crimson tides, the islands bore witness to the bubbling and mutations of change, of defiance, of life sprouting and persisting in ways so twisted and determined that no merciful god would have allowed. Such was the nature of war, one may suppose- a fistfight today could be a full-blown nuclear warhead tomorrow!

But today's conflict in the bar wasn't a fistfight, so much as it was a clear knife fight versus a rather naive gambler who had little more than the jumpsuit on his back. The assailant was a short and stocky woman of a leathery, sun-scorched complexion, and chalky hair that had seen a few hundred too many chem-bleachings. While the top portion of her face was concealed under a pair of heavy-set welding goggles, her cracked lips were strained in a bitter snarl, even as her arms, veins bulging and muscles twisting, continued to swipe at the fearful outsider. For his part, said outsider had run as fast and far as he could, but vault-folk weren't exactly known for their athleticism or ability to breathe in the outside air without coughing. On top of that, this was the outsider's very first time in the so-called city of Corsair, one of the largest of its kind on the island.

Or so he was told. It's not as if he'd actually gotten to survey the island for himself, counting the residents of each building as he passed. In fact, he'd done nearly the opposite- since emerging from his subterrenean home, the young man had done little but flit across the remains of the great Raised Highway, and made his way towards the most likely locations for radio stations, for... reasons. Entirely professional, technical reasons that a mechanic in-training such as him would want to know for... for the betterment of the entire vault! It wasn't at all about that rich, creamy, crooning baritone he heard every night through the comms room... Yes, that's why he took off during his graveyard shift, when most of the other residents were asleep, locking the upper hallways behind him so no one would be able to stop him from opening the great vault door and slipping out, mostly unnoticed.

It wasn't like he'd committed some great sin, really! Tons of residents had left the vault over the years, according to rumors, and none of them faced any consequences upon return! Well, then again, it wasn't like any of them actually returned, but what would the other residents do about it, exactly?

For all the caution he'd exerted in making his way into Corsair, it would be embarassing to meet his end right after riding so high. Who would have thought that surface wastelanders played the same card games they did back in the vault? Entering the city was such an ordeal- according to the bartender, Corsair was a massive cruise ship before the war that had beached into the shallows of the island during all the fighting. It took years to close enough of the holes to make it liveable, not to mention killing the mutated megamano who'd infested the submerged portions of the vessel. In his opinion, though, Corsair was the grandest city he'd ever seen! It glowed above the murky black sea like a military parade on one of the old holotapes, and had more people than he even thought possible! Unfortunately, it appeared that the guards let just about everyone in so long as they didn't have any major weapons, and his assailant's knife clearly made the cut, so to speak.

"No one cheats One-Eyed Mary!" The woman spat, sound raspy and saliva green. Apparently, she'd never lost a game before, at least not as badly as she'd lost against him, because he was knocked to the floor with a black eye and cut lip before he could even think of anything to say. Well, this never happened before! He was a prolific gambler, even back home, but back in the vault, people knew how to take their losses! Sure, they could talk big, but what would they do, steal his rations? It seemed as if this woman was willing to kill him over what was left of his Nuka-Cola and the useless tokens he'd taken from the table upon winning the game. "If you don't fork over all the shells you took- all of them, Mary'll be glad to carve them out of your stomach!"

"Well, it's not like I ate the damn things!" He shouted increduously, only to have the wind knocked out of him by a hard kick to the stomach, falling into a pile of what he hoped was merely water, but smelled otherwise. Wow, the old hag could really throw a real haymaker! If only he hadn't dropped his wrench on the highway whilst on the run from some terrible creatures with hard shells and spiked pincers.

Coughing in disgust, the young man was able to get a small glimpse of his own reflection in the puddle that now drenched his jumpsuit, turning the '2' in '26' a much darker shade of yellow. Ugh, maybe it wasn't water after all. His face wasn't the clean, pretty thing it used to be- normally, he fixed his hair everyday in a prewar-style pomp, but seeing as there being a lack of proper hair product, would just use grease from the machines. The style he'd fixed before he left still held a little bit, but there were also bits of ash and debris dirtying his hair and face, covering the tan skin in brown and grey grime. Shapely eyes that once held a certain edge of extermism now only looked pained- well, it was difficult to see through the swollen eye, but he'd definitely seen better days. This One-Eyed Mary person didn't seem physically a threat at all, either! While not the tallest, he was certainly one of the stronger members of the vault, given that he essentially moved parts and machines all day, but he was no match for the element of surprise and a real scrapper.

Damn! Now he wished he hadn't laughed in the face of one of the other players he'd cleaned out at that bar, a strange young man who looked to be around his age with the smugest shit-eating smirk he'd seen in his life. Upon discovering that he didn't even enough shells to meet the pot, the man had claimed he was some sort of mercenary, and pledged his services to the victor. Obivously, he could probably have used a bodyguard right now, but at the time it sounded like the opportunist was just trying to get a free drink, or worse, mug him later when he would be least expecting it. What did the man call himself? Stumps? Stubbles?

In the corner of his eye, the outsider saw the glint of his assailant's knife in the dimly-lit ship corridor. Her teeth, brown and rotting, reflected very little of the same light. "Alright, boy, you had your chance. Tell me, what do you want them to write on your bodybag when they toss you overboard to be megamano food?" Eyes already wet, the young gambler bit his togue so hard it bled. "No? Well, we can always put you down as a 'dumb fucker' anyways."

"It's Uriel," he groaned, blood slipping from his lips. Maybe if he was built for fighting, he'd get up and try to beat some sense into the old bat, but things looked pretty bleak as they were. Damn, he'd failed his family, himself, and most importantly, his soulmate. Now they'd never get to meet. "Name's... Uriel."

Fist Full of Frogs

 

[Fist Full of Frogs]

A young man sat alone in silence in a dark corner of the room, a dim light swinging over him. A sleazy vagabond named Desmond, or "Stubs" as people liked to call him. His golden blonde hair, dry and unwashed, was combed back into a short mullet. He sported rusted scrap armor, over a red letterman jacket. Not often you see someone prefer vanity over staying alive. Stubs was a mercenary, in both attitude and appearance. From the narcassistic glint in his eye, to the 9mm grease gun strapped to his hip. A scumbag 'gun for hire', through and through. Hawaii was crawling with people like him. Between the radioactive abominations roaming the islands, and blood thirsty raiders, someone is always gonna want some protection. Unfortunately, like most people in his line of work, he's dumb as rocks.

Smoke wafted through the bar as Stubs listened to the jazzy pre-war music that was droning over the radio, ablank expression on his face. He hunched over the table holding his face in his hands, in disbelief that he lost all of his savings in a stupid card game. He was really banking on those Shells to pay for his bar tab. For whatever reason, he seemed 100% confident he was going to win, despite being loosely familiar with the rules. He swore he played it back in Honolulu....once or twice. Stubs, who was loud and seething with hubris just moments prior, was now quiet and abrasive, having taken a large hit to his pride. He never took losing well, even for something as trivial as a card game. He stood up and started making his way towards the door of the bar, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. No point in staying here any longer. Everytime he comes to this damn ship he blows months worth of pay in mere minutes, but for whatever reason, he keeps crawling back.

"Maybe I should stop coming back here" He thought and he strode through the dingy bar. Just as he was about to put a foot through the door, he heard a familiar voice through the bar chatter. He stopped dead in his tracks, and his head spun to the table where he was playing Shells just 20 minutes ago. Wait... was that the pansy who took all of his Shells curled up in a ball on the floor? A narcissistic grin crept across his face. This was an opportunity. He marched up to Mary drawing his sidearm, barging into the exchange. He loomed over her, the pistol firmly pointed at the back of her head.

"You know, there's nothing more that I hate than a sore loser." Stubs hissed. One Eyed Mary heard a metallic click as she was now faced with the business end of a rusty Colt 1911. The thing looked like it was a century old, probably being passed down from scavenger to scavenger before finding it's way into Stub's hands. He squeezed the trigger. "Tell you what, buddy. You didn't take me up on my last offer, but I've got a new one. You give me my shells back, all of them, and I'll send 'little miss cyclops' straight to the pearly gates for you." He said to Uriel, spitefully.

 

[spacepirate]

Failure wasn’t exactly something he was a stranger to, but being surprised rather was. Living the vault for a good two decades would do that to a man, if one could believe it- everyone knew each other, the water stank, and nothing ever changed. At the very least, he thought to himself with the ghost of a smirk playing at this lips, at the very least he’d die in a way that was far more exciting than anything he’d ever heard of! Clearly if his jumpsuit and relatively unmarred skin didn’t give his upbringing away, his naive understanding of human interaction in the Hawaiian wasteland certainly must have been.

The labored, wheezy breathing of his elderly assailant cut through his ringing ears, and audio squeezes his eyes as tightly as he could, waiting and waiting for a final blow... that would never come?

Blinking at his own terrified expression in the filthy puddle, the vault-dweller listened intently to the new exchange. He couldn’t hear much of it, the sounds wouldn’t quite come into focus, but he saw the snaggle-toothed old woman suck at a corner of her lips in a way that must have been trepidatious. Her one good eye wiggled a bit in its socket, seemingly listening intently to the threat it was being given. Despite herself, One Eyed Mary craned her neck ever forward, as if it would protect her from the gun at the back of her head. “Pah! To hell with you,” she cried, “you’d really risk banishment from your favorite gamblin’ den to protect a pink-chested rat-fucker?!”

With all her bravado, there was a certain quiver to her voice, likely induced by the loaded weapon. “And suppose I just run you both through with old Rusty,” she continued, rubbing the point of her dagger lovingly against her ragged cheeks. “No deal!” And yet she didn’t move an inch from her spot, not to turn around and not to lean down to finish her target off.

The relieved beginnings of a smile immediately shattered, irritation and desperation twisting his face instead. “Really? This isn’t... ow, exactly a fair bargaining ground, now is it? Plus, didn’t you just say you hated sore losers? What about all that noise?” God, the hired gun really wasn’t giving him any slack, was he? That wasn’t the only reason his relief had soured in his mouth, though. Should he lie? Try to talk his way out of the situation, despite his rather sour and bleeding tongue? As if to respond to the thought, the other man’s gun clicked, as if to say it would be a horrible idea. “I suppose your initial offer is off the table, then,” he managed to laugh a bit under his breath, going loopy from the beat down.

Uriel shut his eyes. He’d never so much as touched a dead body before! One-Eyed Mags was a miserable bitch, but should she really be killed for this? He’d... he’d definitely be responsible for asking the man to blow her brains out, wouldn’t he? But here she was, about to gut him like a rad-tuna. “Fine,” he relented. “Fine, just... just don’t let her kill me, and you can have all the shells in my pockets, I swear it!”

 

[Fist Full of Frogs]

"Deal."

Old Mary was as a grim, yet tangible reminder of life in the wasteland. Everyone was like Mary to an extent, stubborn and nasty, albeit some more than others. Humans driven to fight and scrounge like rats. A reality that Stubs knew well, but didn't tend to dwell on. It had become second nature at this point. What would you expect from someone born into a pandemonium. The Corsair was the only sense of normalcy for him out in the wastes. The old ship was a bastardization of the old world , masked by it's bright floodlights and bustling marketplaces. A clumsy imitation forged by those who have only known survival and slaughter their whole lives. But Stubs had to admit, the gambling hall was pretty sweet, it'd be a shame if he was thrown out. The wench had him there.

The chatter stopped as the situation escalated. The bar became silent, not a sound but the music softly playing over the radio. All eyes were now planted on Stubs and Mary. The bartender was particularly attentive, worried someone was going to get splattered on the floor of his business. The old hag was begging to get shot at this point. It was almost admirable how confident she was in the merc's hesitation. Luckily for her, Stubs was starting to realize murdering old ladies probably wasn't good for his image.

"I've been trying to shake the gambling habit anyway." Stubs said in a toneless voice as he rammed the back of the gun to her head. He was patronizing and condescending, so even an old crone who was probably inebriated to oblivion could understand what was saying.

"I'm going to turn your insides into outsides unless you get out of here. I'd be doing the world a fucking favor too." He said as he gave her a cold, exasperated stare. Like he just wanted to get this over with.

"Going once. Going twice-" He said as he squeezed the trigger, just a hair away blasting her head off.

 

[spacepirate]

Killing someone was almost a foreign response to the sheltered vault dweller- even with conflicts in the vault, denizens that caused problems for others or refused to become part of the Program were merely exiled, not killed. Granted, given their lack of surface exposure, one might suppose that exile would be equated to a death sentence, but such technicalities were a huge headache. The thought of being splattered in One-Eyed Mary’s ancient blood was indeed more than a little disheartening, not to mention disgusting, but if the alternative was to be cut up into ribbons, it wasn’t the hardest decision he’d ever made. No, that honor would have to be awarded perhaps to the one time there was a colony of writing, crusty-furred maumau infesting the lower levels, and his supervisor had forced him to-

Actually, it was a good thing that he’d left that entire life behind. It had been almost three years to the day, and Uriel still had nightmares of the millions of fleshy little feet crawling here and there, into the most intimate corners of his mind.

Well, at least there was that sweet, tender voice on the radio to keep the bad dreams away and the luck in the day! For the most part, anyways.

Pushing himself up with a small groan, the former vault dweller took another look around the corridor. The blinking lights of the bar could be seen on the far end, but any tension or silenced were lost to the young man with a ringing in his ears. His eyes darted in between One-Eyed Mary and the shadow of his apparent guardian angel with grit and grime. For the most part, any view of Stubs was obscured by his assailant from the position he was in, but he could see the man’s shadow with a raised gun, and could hear the threat as it was voiced. There was suddenly a lump in his throat as the reality of the situation sunk in.

One-Eyed Mary, for her part, took her sweet time in putting together a response, sucking at the snaggletooth in the corner of her mouth. It protruded from her bottom lip, forming a depression into the raggedy skin. Finally, she spat a greenish black globule at Uriel, the spittle landing across his raised arms, which were thankfully still mostly clothed. “Soft-bellied fuck like you ain’t worth this shit,” she snarled. “Aye’ll just pick my shells off this one’s corpse,” she nodded to Stubs, “soon as the two o’ ye leave Corsair, it’s easy picking!” With that, the cantankerous old fowl stomped away, waddling all the while.

With that, Uriel let out a sigh of relief- but such a move was temporary, as he had a new surfacer to deal with.

 

[Fist Full of Frogs]

As the dust settled, the bar returned to normal as everyone lost interest in whatever just happened. The constant chatter and murmuring resumed, like everyone just picked up where they left off. It was as if this was a normal, everyday occurrence aboard the Corsair.

"Jungle trash." Stubs cursed under his breath as he watched her leave. He hoped she heard that.
Stubs slipped his pistol back into it's leather as he spun towards the petrified vault dweller, towering over him. What a sorry sight. He held in a chuckle as he vindictively watched the man who laughed in his face moments ago, now sitting in the fetal position on the floor. Uriel seemed like such a hotshot before. When he had all of Stub's money in his pockets, that is. It's no wonder old Mary wanted to gut him like a stuck pig. He really needed help to run off an old lady? Where the hell did this guy come from? It'd be funny if it wasn't so sad.

"Let's hope she gets eaten by Spider Crabs or something, for your sake." Stubs mocked him with his typical shit eating grin, pleased with his own sarcasm. He reached out a hand, offering to help Uriel to his feet. A youthful, yet grizzled hand, covered in cuts and bruises. That went for Stub's whole body really. From the black and blue blemishes sprawling across his face, to the dollar store Bandaid planted on his nose. Each wound having no particular story behind it besides stupidity and arrogance. Stubs was a mercenary, but clearly not a very good one. If he was, he probably wouldn't look like the glorified punching bag that Uriel saw before him.

"And just to be sure. You said, all of the Shells in your pocket?" He said, self satisfied. Looks like he's going to be paying for that bar tab after all.

 

[spacepirate]

Merely scowling at being called the slur "jungle trash", One-Eyed Mary merely spat another globule in the young man's direction before slinking away into the darkness of the corridor. Despite the Corsair being one of the safest settlements in the Hawaiian wasteland, it was certainly no stranger to scraps and bouts in the walkways and lower bowels of the ship. The guards weren't necessarily there to prevent violence between ordinary folks, so long as they stayed away from the shops or anyone deemed important enough for their murder or serious injury to cause an incident. Not that Uriel would be aware of them at all, but a daimyo from the Kuneshita Shogunate would likely cause the guards to rouse, though the power-armored dignitaries would likely be more than capable of defending themselves. Traders and hoppers from Honolulu would likely enjoy some level of protection as well- business needed to flow, after all.

For the rest of them, though, especially unknowns like Uriel or jungle-dwellers like One-Eyed Mary, survival on the Corsair was Darwin's game.

Eyes blazing as he gazed up rather helplessly at his rescuer, the vault dweller couldn't help but feel a tad sorry for himself. Of course, any defiance was largely marred by one of his eyes swollen shut from the impact. It was embarrassing, obviously, having to have begged for help from the very same man he'd laughed at for being a mercenary. Though he supposed that without the dirty blonde's help, he might very well be megamano chum, Uriel was still unconvinced he was out of trouble quite yet- it wasn't like the old hag's brain had been blown from her skull, so perhaps the two were working together in some advanced scam? Not that he exactly wanted to be covered in brain juice and bullet blood, but it would have at least eased his suspicions. "Could'a probably handled that one," he grumbled, taking the other's hand in one while running a hand through his own hair with the other, "But thanks for the assist." When he finished untangling the black depressing pomp, his hand was black with a mix of machine grease and volcanic ash.

Well, no matter- wasn't like his future husband and soulmate was going to see him tonight, after all. The radio personality was likely far from the gltiz and grunge of Corsair, at least given the lack of visible antennae.

Wiping his other hand with a small scowl on his jumpsuit, the vault dweller couldn't help but grimace at all the scratches and rough scars on the other's palm. What a gross feeling- with a critical gaze from his hazel eyes, Uriel noted the other's scarred-up skin, a far cry from his own rather soft complexion, aside from the stray burn mark here and there from unruly machines. Ever the gambler, nothing in his expression gave away the anxiety of being pressed for shells, save for perhaps the momentary quiver of his lower lip. "I... yeah, right, we had a deal, huh?" he asked rhetorically, as if to draw the moment out for longer.

Sucking in a breath of air, the young player merely patted his pockets. "Right... so, I, uh, could give you everything in my pockets right now," he began, not even fully remembering how many shells he'd won from the pot, "or! I could get you double- nah, triple, even, if you could, uh, wait a little longer for me to clean out s'more suckers- I mean, folks, from another one of the bars. Whaddaya say, huh? A pretty sweet deal, I think, yeah, way sweeter than the other one." He offered, perhaps neglecting to mention he was more or less banned from the last bar they'd played in for suspicion of cheating.

 

[Fist Full of Frogs]

Stubs stuffed his hands in his pockets, still on edge. It was a bit jarring how quickly the standoff de-escalated into a casual conversation. A part of him wondered if he'd regret not ending Mary's miserable life, but he kept reassuring himself that she was just running her mouth with empty threats. Besides, he had a little too much dignity (ego) to worry about a chem junkie like her. He had bigger fish to fry. If everyone had to stomp every rad-roach that crawled their way, nobody would get anything done. Now he was faced with the fidgety vault dweller. Stubs furrowed his brow at the strange request.

"You could have started with a 'thank you'." He grumbled. Stubs had been in this line of work for a while, since he'd left Honolulu in fact. He had grown up in the Pearl Harbor area, or what was left of it. These days it's just a sprawling mess of dilapidated resort hotels reclaimed by the jungle. A tourist city reduced to a cesspool of gang violence and turf wars. Stubs was always far too ambitious to waste away in that tropical hell, so he became a running gun. A vagabond who migrated from bar to bar, fighting for the highest bidder. The islands were a chaotic place, he had seen a lot in his travels. From typhoons bringing acid rain, to the Communist remnants stomping around in strange, foreign power armor. Despite all he had seen and done, he had never heard anything as fucking stupid as what just came out of Uriels mouth. What was this guy trying to pull on him? He was dumbfounded for a second.

"So... let me get this straight? You want to drag me all over O'ahu on some gambling splurge to make sure you don't get stabbed again. Kind of a roundabout way of hiring a merc." Stubs said with a hint of scorn. At first he was humored by Uriel, but the situation was starting to put him in a sour mood. His expression reflected that as a sneer started to crawl across his face. At this point he'd do anything to get out of this stuffy ship. Everything was moldy, and the people smelled like fish. Stubs was eager to get out on the open road. Besides, this gambler seemed like he had a knack for getting himself into trouble, perhaps there was money to be made here...

"I guess i've got nothing better to do...But if you don't triple my shells as you promised, you're gonna be picking up your teeth with broken fingers."

Uriel really can't catch a break, can he?

 

[spacepirate]

Though no more than a few seconds had passed between the two men in the salty Corsair air, Uriel felt the moment hanging for what seemed like an eternity. Back in the vault, he’d more or less had a reputation for being slippery- not literally, oddly, though he fiddled with machines enough that he did have a sort of oily greasiness to his paws- in the sense that he’d given out enough IOU’s to spell ‘caribou’ about a hundred times. Which is to say that he‘d given out about a hundred, which perhaps didn’t seem much, but was significantly worse when one considered that the vault had a population of around twice that.

This would be his first empty promise in the sweet island air, though, above the glowing, irradiated shores.

“Right, you’re right,” he quickly remedied, singing a different tune than the smugness he’d had in the bar, “thanks for your help with the old bat.” Tenderly pressing the back of his hand against his swollen eye, Uriel said little while the blonde ruffian seemed to come to a decision. Holding his breath as the wastelander seemed to prepare to dig into him, Uriel grinned with relief, and indeed a certain amount of arrogance, at the man begrudgingly accepting his offer. The fool hadn’t even asked to see the shells! This was priceless!

Er, as long as it didn’t end with Uriel’s brain splattered across the decks once the guy found out that he’d blown all the shells he’d promised, but what were the chances of that happening? He’d survived this long, hadn’t he?

Patting the dirt from the seat of his pants, Uriel shook his head and raised both hands good-naturedly. “Hey, I promised, didn’t I? Triple shells, guaranteed- I’m good on my word! And with some cards. I mean, you saw how I killed it in there earlier.” And he had! Hopefully he wouldn’t be killed in the same way. “If we’re gonna be travellin’ together, you might as well know who you’re working for,” he added, likely getting carried away, as he always did. “Name’s Uriel. I’ve always been sort of a card trick, back home they even called me ‘Uriel the Ace’,” he boasted, almost as if he hadn’t just been held at knife point by a senile maniac.

”What about you? You from around here?” It would be nice to find a place to crash for the night- it seemed like One-Eyed Mary would be ready for them as soon as they left Corsair.

 

[Fist Full of Frogs]

"Yeah.. guess your right. Sorry about that, I just hate it when people try to rip me off." As the baby-faced merc replied, Uriel now found Stub's grizzled hand in front of him, beckoning for a shake. He made eye contact with his new 'boss.' Despite his gritty, resilient appearance, Stubs still had a youthful spark in his eye. A stubborn look, like the wasteland had only broken him physically and not mentally. He couldn't have been older than 19. "My friends call me Stubs. Freelance mercenary." The kid blurted out. He was aware of, but uncaring about the stupidity of his own nickname. Besides, it rolled off the tounge better than 'Desmond.'

"I'm from Honolulu. I heard there was a lot of cash to be made on this island, but I haven't had much luck. I was really hoping i'd be rich by now...." Stubs chuckled for a moment before his laugh fizzled away into an awkward, nervous stare as he reconsidered the life choices that led him to be standing in the middle of this grimy bar. This really wasn't where he isn't where he thought he'd see himself after all these years. What he said was partly true, O'ahu was a big island with a lot of work. A lot of people optimistically came there with dreams of starting a new life, like flies to shit. Stubs was another maggot crawling in the pile. That's how places like the Corsair stay in business, after all. Stubs wanted to get away from the life he lived in Honolulu, but he really considered going back to that ruined city. He thought it would be nice to finally take his life into his own hands and work for himself, but the mercenary lifestyle wasn't as glamorous as he thought it'd be. Maybe he'd see how this new job goes. As long as this Uriel doesn't try to put him on another goddamn boat. If there's anything Stubs hated more than getting ripped off, it was the ocean.

"You headed anywhere in particular or are you just drifting around? You're not some kind of... hobo, are you?" Stubs raised an eyebrow. Uriel and Stubs were vastly different people, but they seemed to be cut from the same cloth in the sense they had no direction in life what-so-ever. That worried him. "Maybe we otta take this conversation somewhere else."