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Fandom Fallout: Into the Light [IC]
- Thread starter ghostlynarcissus
- Start date
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- fallout fandom gritty nuclear video game
ghostlynarcissus
witch
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Namazu
Baron of Bad Boys
MICAIAH 'MIC' SOLOMON
GOODNEIGHBOR - MARKETS
EARLY EVENING
Every town of any size worth putting on a map had one - the crafty entrepreneur who knew they couldn’t compete with the more specialized shops, so they cast a wide net and sold whatever they could pry out of people’s hands - or the land’s hands, as the case may be. Cheap and sold as-is, these places were a gamble and a gold mine all at once.
Goodneighbor was no different. Frankie, who did not have a last name and did not need one - ran the one here. Some called him Frank-en-Wheels, on account of how he scooted around town in an old chair strapped to two bicycle wheels that he made himself, thanks to his two bum legs and the slight droop to the left side of his body. Not to Frankie’s face, of course. All you needed was one hand to pull a trigger. Frankie still had that, and was willing to use it.
Frankie’s shop was at the dead-end of an alleyway, nestled under a discolored tarp that smelled of mildew and dead birds. It kept the rain off the goods stacked up along the back wall, and off Frankie himself, well enough. There was a low table made out of a discarded door missing its doorknob stretched across the front of the shop, at just the right height for Frankie’s chair. The knob wasn't so much as discarded as it was 'also for sale, in the junk pile, somewhere'. A semi-sturdy wooden crate was on the other side, for customers that felt it necessary to get on Frankie’s level and look him in the eye while they did business. Most never bothered to sit.
“Nah, see this? This is good for recycling only. See that crack in the casing? You can’t load these into anything anymore. You’ll just blow your damn hand off if you try to shoot.” Micaiah ‘Mic’ Solomon picked up the cylindrical fusion cell between thumb and index finger, turning the aforementioned crack towards Frankie. It was a hairline fracture - someone less careful could have missed it entirely - but it was a fracture in the ammunition bundle’s outer casing nonetheless. His elbows rested on the table; Mic didn’t visit Frankie’s often, but when he did, he graciously accepted a seat.
“Shit goan’ leak?” Frankie rolled up closer to his stall’s low table and leaned forward, sliding on his dirty glasses to take a better look. They were thick glasses like the bottom of bottles and magnified his eyes until they looked bug-eyed. Frankie’s age didn’t show as much until he put on the glasses and did his old-man-squint.
“Eventually.” Mic nodded, solemnly.
“Shit. Can you fix it? If not, I gotta dump it.” Frankie gave the fusion cell in Mic’s hand a distrustful glare, as if he could already imagine deadly radiation spewing out of it and reaching out for him specifically - yet another low hand dealt to him by life.
Mic made a show of holding the little yellow and grey cylinder out at arm’s length, then closer, to scrutinize it.
“Might be tricky, and I gotta do it soon before it pops.” Mic started to sit the cylinder back down on the table when Frankie held his good hand up, palm out, and shook it back and forth to stop him.
“Nah nah nah, don’t give that thing back to me. You take it - you take it far away from here, you do what you need to do, and you don’t get blown up or take the sickness doing it, you hear?”
That’s what Frankie called getting radiation poisoning - ‘take the sickness’. Mic never really figured out why, and he didn’t dare ask. Locals said Frankie’s lameness was on account of suspected radiation poisoning when he was little, and he lost a wife to it years later. He’d been paranoid about radiation ever since and didn’t want anyone to talk about how it was all around him, all the time, and inescapable. Mic had to gather up that story from four different sources over the span of two visits in six months. Mic knew better than to pry more. He also didn’t have the energy to pry more.
“Take the whole damn thing.” Frankie leaned down, pulled a box up onto the table, and shoved it towards Mic. “And get it outta town.”
Mic was already reaching into his bag and making a show of looking for something to trade in return when Frankie started to protest.
“I said, take the whole damn thing and get outta town with it. Dyin’ or losin’ my good arm ain’t worth a few caps.” Frankie was already wheeling away from the table, a sign that this transaction was completed.
Mic wasn’t going to argue. He’d just received a whole lot of ammo for free - and truth be told, he might have fudged the facts a little. Or a lot. It was not at all as dangerous as the story he spun. The cells weren’t going to leak or explode, and he could fix them long before they got worse. Frankie didn’t know that, and Mic was not going to educate him on the matter.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Frankie. You take care now.” Mic said in a serious voice, easily hiding how happy he was with how this deal turned out as he slid the box of ammo into his bag. Frankie just grunt-mumbled something as old people often do and turned away, wheeling to the other side of his tiny little dead-end store to rummage through bits and bobs of junk he had on display so that he could pretend to be busy instead of scared.
The other thing you could learn about a town from its junk shop was how desperate and scared people were. For Frankie, it was the fear of things he couldn’t see and didn’t understand. That’s what made Frankie, and this whole town, dangerous.
There was plenty of fear to go around in Goodneighbor: Fear of disease, injury, hunger, failure, loneliness, raiders, loss, death, and those few unmentionable things worse than death. Readjusting his recently-fuller pack on his back and stepping out of the alleyway, Mic caught a sight of one of the more common fears: The fear of going hungry.
A child, probably no more than ten, eleven, maybe a short-for-his-age twelve at the most, was winding his way carefully towards sparse crowds in the market area. It was not obvious in the least bit, but Mic knew a fellow ‘artist’ at work when he saw it: the child was pickpocketing anyone and anything he could get away with. A cap here, a bit of wrapped food from a bag there, even a pair of bobby pins slid from the edge of someone’s pocket. It was almost impressive for a child.
Mic decided to linger and watch, just to see what happened. He might see a kid scrounge up enough for dinner, or he might see a kid lose a hand. You never really knew.
Elias Wren
New Member
Julian Tucker - Central Boston - Goodneighbor
Julian sat alone in his dimly lit office going over his most recent job request, a hit just outside Goodneighbor. A group of raiders had set up shop and we're attacking locals in the area, one of which had enough caps to do something about it. He nursed a glass of rum mixed with nuka cola while a lit cigarette turned to ash on his desk.
”A small group of at least four raiders. Lightly armed and most likely drugged out of their minds. Should be an easy job. Judging from their location I should be able to hit them from here.”
Julian spoke to himself as he put a finger over a mostly intact building with enough height for good sight lines through the congested area. He got up from his chair, which squealed something horrible, and grabbed his rifle and pistol off the rack next to the door. He headed outside into the musty air of Central Boston and sighed softly. He flicked what was left of his cigarette onto the ground and stomped it out before leaving.
He made his way through the ruins of Boston toward his destination. Julian arrived at the building and headed up to the roof, huffing as he ascended the stairs. Once at the top he sat down against the ledge and pulled a stim pack from inside his jacket, injecting it into his arm with a wince.
After recovering for a moment he turned and sat up on one knee, letting his rifle rest on the brick ledge as he looked through the scope. Julian soon spotted his targets sitting around a makeshift fire with one passed out on the ground while the other three ate god knows what off sticks roasting over the open flames.
Julian lined up his first shot and held his breath for a moment before pulling the trigger, hitting his target square in the chest. He adjusted and fired another shot at the one who was sleeping, another clean kill. The final two scattered and took cover behind an old burnt out vehicle. Julian adjusted his position and simply waited.
It wasn't long before one of the last two peaked out from behind the car to try and find it where he was, a third shot finding its way into the raiders skull. The third have up and decided to make a run for it, but did not make it far before receiving a bullet to the back. As the final raider fell to the ground Julian stood up and made his way back down the building and over to the bodies.
He looted what few caps, ammo, and other valuable items he could before kicking dirt into the fire to snuff it out. He stuffed their weapons into the small satchel he carried over his left shoulder. Julian decided he would sell what he could at Goodneighbor since it was closer than Diamond City at this point, making his way there and through the front gate.
’Hey KL-E-0, long time no see. Got some stuff to sell.”
The repurposed assaultron turned toward Julian and they both approached the counter.
”Good to see you big boy, what do you have for me today?
Julian dumped it his bag on the counter and KL-E-0 calculated the total almost instantly.
”One hundred and eight caps, final offer.”
Julian nodded to accept, collected his caps, and stepped away from the counter. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and put one in his mouth, brandishing a custom flip lighter to ignite the tip and taking a long drag before billowing out a cloud of smoke.
”Guess I'll stop by the Third Rail and get me a drink. Been awhile since I was last here.”
Julian walked down the street until he came to the steps leading down into the shady bar below, heading inside. He stopped and handed his rifle to Ham, the ghoul bouncer of the Third Rail, before heading inside and sitting at the bar a few seats away from Ximena. He waved to Charlie the bartender and ordered a straight glass of rum, good go to alcohol of course.
Julian sat there, cigarette in one has and glass in the other, looking around the room at all those gathered to blow off steam after surviving another day. He couldn't help but overhear the conversation between Charlie and Ximena and letting out a light chuckle at the banter between the two. He noticed the busted lip and turned toward her to speak.
”Rough day? Hope
the other guy got it worse.”
Julian sat alone in his dimly lit office going over his most recent job request, a hit just outside Goodneighbor. A group of raiders had set up shop and we're attacking locals in the area, one of which had enough caps to do something about it. He nursed a glass of rum mixed with nuka cola while a lit cigarette turned to ash on his desk.
”A small group of at least four raiders. Lightly armed and most likely drugged out of their minds. Should be an easy job. Judging from their location I should be able to hit them from here.”
Julian spoke to himself as he put a finger over a mostly intact building with enough height for good sight lines through the congested area. He got up from his chair, which squealed something horrible, and grabbed his rifle and pistol off the rack next to the door. He headed outside into the musty air of Central Boston and sighed softly. He flicked what was left of his cigarette onto the ground and stomped it out before leaving.
He made his way through the ruins of Boston toward his destination. Julian arrived at the building and headed up to the roof, huffing as he ascended the stairs. Once at the top he sat down against the ledge and pulled a stim pack from inside his jacket, injecting it into his arm with a wince.
After recovering for a moment he turned and sat up on one knee, letting his rifle rest on the brick ledge as he looked through the scope. Julian soon spotted his targets sitting around a makeshift fire with one passed out on the ground while the other three ate god knows what off sticks roasting over the open flames.
Julian lined up his first shot and held his breath for a moment before pulling the trigger, hitting his target square in the chest. He adjusted and fired another shot at the one who was sleeping, another clean kill. The final two scattered and took cover behind an old burnt out vehicle. Julian adjusted his position and simply waited.
It wasn't long before one of the last two peaked out from behind the car to try and find it where he was, a third shot finding its way into the raiders skull. The third have up and decided to make a run for it, but did not make it far before receiving a bullet to the back. As the final raider fell to the ground Julian stood up and made his way back down the building and over to the bodies.
He looted what few caps, ammo, and other valuable items he could before kicking dirt into the fire to snuff it out. He stuffed their weapons into the small satchel he carried over his left shoulder. Julian decided he would sell what he could at Goodneighbor since it was closer than Diamond City at this point, making his way there and through the front gate.
’Hey KL-E-0, long time no see. Got some stuff to sell.”
The repurposed assaultron turned toward Julian and they both approached the counter.
”Good to see you big boy, what do you have for me today?
Julian dumped it his bag on the counter and KL-E-0 calculated the total almost instantly.
”One hundred and eight caps, final offer.”
Julian nodded to accept, collected his caps, and stepped away from the counter. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and put one in his mouth, brandishing a custom flip lighter to ignite the tip and taking a long drag before billowing out a cloud of smoke.
”Guess I'll stop by the Third Rail and get me a drink. Been awhile since I was last here.”
Julian walked down the street until he came to the steps leading down into the shady bar below, heading inside. He stopped and handed his rifle to Ham, the ghoul bouncer of the Third Rail, before heading inside and sitting at the bar a few seats away from Ximena. He waved to Charlie the bartender and ordered a straight glass of rum, good go to alcohol of course.
Julian sat there, cigarette in one has and glass in the other, looking around the room at all those gathered to blow off steam after surviving another day. He couldn't help but overhear the conversation between Charlie and Ximena and letting out a light chuckle at the banter between the two. He noticed the busted lip and turned toward her to speak.
”Rough day? Hope
the other guy got it worse.”
Karcen
Ten Thousand Club
Nicola had come with her companion Justin to the commonwealth to hunt down the truth behind rumors that had spread through the trade lines among the ruins of America. The rumors said that a group called the institute had created advanced machines that might even surpass the pre war machines, synths. They also spoke of how no one could tell who was one of these synths at least one of the so called gen 3 synths. Nicola was very interested in how these fake humans were made and how they were able to seemingly copy people. Her body had been crumbling for years and while it had been slowed Nicola had to pretty much live incased in a shell to not fall to sickness. These synths were perhaps her ticket to salvation, other technologies she had found had not panned out and in some cases she had been unable to to make her way into the ancient cashes of technology. Big mountain had been one such place she had tried to enter but been repelled by the forces of whatever maddened beings still ruled the place. It was unlikely that anything good had been in there judging from old records of what the pre war government had wanted from them. here in the commonwealth however, there was a chance at new technologies not in any records the enclave had ever had.
That lead Nicola to the ruins of the C.I.T. as if any place was likely to have birthed a secret cabal of scientists it would have been a college. While not expecting much given this institute was a secretive group, Nicola was still annoyed that the place seemed to be just another ruin like any other. She might have hoped that there might be some left over experiments before the scientists left to where ever they went. Nicola didn't know where they could have hidden, the enclave had used hidden pre war bases and Nicola doubted that the bunch of college students would have access to any places like that around here. Well Nicola had assumed this would not be some in and out mission, this would take time.
Nicola scanned some left over papers, but the years had not been kind to them and any words on them were long faded. The ruins had been quiet so far as despite seemingly being the institute's birth place they didn't seem to want to defend it. That was both good and odd it made Nicola feel like there was a trap being set or that it was meant to make this place look abandoned.
" find anything Justin?" Nicola asked if only to hear something in this dead place to break the oppressive silence that made one think that they were being secretly watched from every shadow.
it was kind of funny that Nicola had come to travel with a member of the NCR, or ex member, as she had belonged to the Enclave and she knew they two groups were enemies. It was a wound in the Enclave's pride that had been passed down from their first defeat to their second. Nicola had heard of the hairbrained plan the higher ups had come up with and how it was the same as that darn computer. Kill everyone that wasn't enclave. While Nicola wouldn't exactly cry over such a loss, she did see that the people here weren't exactly as mutated as those old men had thought. They could have rebuilt America if they hadn't followed those men, they needed more like Autumn, men of vision to take over and rule the wastes to rebuild America. Well that was all in the past the enclave was dead Nicola might end up being the last one given she was the youngest she knew of. That was another reason she had to cling to life to live for her former people.
NanLia
the one and only
AVA PEARSON
VAULT #44
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Megilagor
My feelings are like schrodingers cat.
Safton
Mr. Heartbreaker
Vicente "Vic" Alcaraz
That was what Vicente had decided on bothered him most about Goodneighbor. Not the almost comically contradictory name of the place, not the residents who eyed you and your purse like a hunter eyeing up a radstag for dinner, not the pushy vendors. Not even the armed gangs on every street corner.
No, it was definitely the smell.
That unique blend of sweat, urine, shit (human and brahmin alike), and raw human desperation all coalesced into a new single aroma that was somehow distinct and unique in its awfulness. Truly greater (or worse?) than the sum of its parts. It was made all the worse by the town's cramped confines and the forced proximity of so many people on top of one another.
Vic almost regretted leaving his power armor tucked away in a small Pre-War storage locker on the outskirts of the town for safekeeping. At least the crude metal helmet and face mask would have provided some measure of protection against the pervasive scent. Still, the decision had been a calculated risk. Would he have need of the suit within Goodneighbor? Conceivably. Would it give him an advantage over the local miscreants in a fight? Certainly. But he also knew well enough to understand that wearing such a thing -- and showing off the functionality of the fusion core inside -- would attract a lot of the wrong kind of attention, including some from individuals brazen enough to risk taking shots at a Paladin. And he wouldn't put it past some of those in turn to have weapons capable of giving his suit pause.
So the armor stayed outside and Vic was little more than some stranger in a jumpsuit... despite the fervent objections of the Blue Ridge Caravan Master he was traveling with. Reginald had been vocal and outspoken in insisting that Vicente don the armor while escorting him about Goodneighbor... only for the Paladin to gently remind him that he did not, in fact, take orders from the man anymore. Not since he was a starving child, in fact. As it happened, Goodneighbor was where they would be parting ways as Reginald continued his trade route while Vic split off to pick up his search.
Vic moved at a steady pace ahead of the Caravan Master, browsing the stalls. He ignored the pointed attempts by the vendors in every direction to grab his attention for homemade booze or a bit of Jet, instead focusing on the essentials as he attempted to mentally gauge the food supplies in his ruck and how much he would need to purchase. With his rough calculations done, he approached the nearest vendor.
"Two rations of your gecko jerky, plus two of the beef."
The merchant nodded quickly and opened his mouth to launch into a spiel -- no doubt hoping to sell the stranger on some far more exotic and nourishing meat -- only for Vicente to silence him with a purposeful motion of his hand before reaching down for the small pouch at his side that passed for a wallet. Except when it had been stolen. Vicente's hand patted at nothing, and his eyes flashed upward, scanning the market for the perpetrator as the adrenaline pumped into his veins, fists clenching at his side.
Maybe he should have brought the armor after all.
Namazu
Baron of Bad Boys
MICAIAH 'MIC' SOLOMON
GOODNEIGHBOR - MARKETS
EARLY EVENING
Mic snorted at how the dark haired man absolutely did not even notice the child lift his pouch and dart off, and it was not until the man was three stalls past that did he start patting himself down and come to the realization he’d been stolen from.
Pushing himself off the wall he’d been leaning on, Mic first went towards the kid, keeping it casual like he was headed the other direction towards something more interesting. The kid was too busy eyeballing his next target - a tired looking woman with three young children - to notice that as the child-thief picked the woman’s purse, Mic picked the kid’s back pocket at the same time.
The kid didn’t even notice. Easy come, easy go.
Mic made a quick loop around the market the other direction to make it not obvious he’d pickpocketed the pickpocket, and headed back towards the dark-haired man that needed a chaperone more than the kid did. As he moved, he tugged open Vic’s pouch, added the caps to his own bag of funds, and tucked Vic’s poor abused moneybag into a pocket.
Sliding up next to Vic, Mic shook out enough caps to pay for the man’s rations seemingly from his own funds, handing it over to the meat-seller.
“I got ya covered.” Mic commented, offering the man a grin. Nevermind he was covering Vic with Vic’s own money.
“He’ll have two of the gecko jerky and two of the radstag flanks though, not beef.” The merchant wasn’t going to ask what was going on here; he merely took the money and offered out the food, looking mildly put out his beef was turned down.
“Gotta watch your caps a bit more closely around here, man. Just about everyone’s got sticky fingers. Even the kids and the little old ladies.” Mic advised Vic, then lowered his voice a little as he turned and looked the other direction so that the merchant couldn’t see his lips moving.
“The beef here ain’t brahmin. It’s cat and cardboard. Just trust me.” Mic gave the other man a steady look for a moment to make sure he understood, studying the man’s face, then leaned back a little on one foot to openly and obviously study him.
The man didn’t look completely fresh-faced and oblivious (even if he had acted that way) as he did from behind. A scar, some muscle to fill out that jumpsuit nicely - clearly a guy that should have been able to handle himself, if he knew what he was doing. So that, Mic silently surmised, meant the guy actually did not know what he was doing here.
“Welcome to Goodneighbor, I guess. You coming, going, or just running?”
ghostlynarcissus
witch
NanLia
the one and only
AVA PEARSON
VAULT #44
Last edited:
Elias Wren
New Member
“That's about all we can ask for, staying alive another day.”
Julian took a slow smooth drag from his cigarette before inhaling and savoring the rough flavor of centuries old tobacco, not wanting to waste a moment. They weren't terribly hard to come by, but he had gone without them multiple times in his life and learned to savor every moment just in case.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his last pack which contained two lonely and slightly bent cigarettes, offering one to the lady in case she was interested.
“Smoke?”
He asked mid exhale, making sure to blow the smoke off to the side and not in her face, didn't want to be rude after all. He took a swig of his drink as she toasted to survival, a look of content on his face as the flavors mixed in his mouth before setting the glass down gently.
He took a moment to ponder her question and shrugged before answering.
“Been in the Boston area my whole life, I run odd jobs here and there. Was in the area and decided to stop by Goodneighbor to sell some things from my recent bounty. Might rent a room for the night since it's getting late.”
Julian turned to face Ximena on his stool and rested his arm on the bar top prop himself up, casting a soft smile in her direction, happy to have some civil company.
“How about yourself?”
Julian took a slow smooth drag from his cigarette before inhaling and savoring the rough flavor of centuries old tobacco, not wanting to waste a moment. They weren't terribly hard to come by, but he had gone without them multiple times in his life and learned to savor every moment just in case.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his last pack which contained two lonely and slightly bent cigarettes, offering one to the lady in case she was interested.
“Smoke?”
He asked mid exhale, making sure to blow the smoke off to the side and not in her face, didn't want to be rude after all. He took a swig of his drink as she toasted to survival, a look of content on his face as the flavors mixed in his mouth before setting the glass down gently.
He took a moment to ponder her question and shrugged before answering.
“Been in the Boston area my whole life, I run odd jobs here and there. Was in the area and decided to stop by Goodneighbor to sell some things from my recent bounty. Might rent a room for the night since it's getting late.”
Julian turned to face Ximena on his stool and rested his arm on the bar top prop himself up, casting a soft smile in her direction, happy to have some civil company.
“How about yourself?”
Safton
Mr. Heartbreaker
Vicente "Vic" Alcaraz
Vicente was scanning the market, looking for any sign of his wallet and finding none. He attempted to size up those nearest to him, assessing whether they could be the thief… and if they were, how much trouble they would pose if it came to a fight. Those around him seemed oblivious to this analysis even as the gears turned in his head.
There. Scarred, rough clothes. Knife at his side. Wouldn’t surprise me if he ran with a gang. But he’s too big. No finesse in his movements. Would rather mug you than pick your pocket I imagine.
Her? No, she’s too busy trying to draw eyes instead of avoid them. Probably wants to pull in clientele for that brothel down the street.
Vic subconsciously fingered the grip of the pistol strapped to his leg, ignoring the merchant grumbling about payment behind him as he wondered if he would even be able to confront a thief in the environment of what passed for a market in Goodneighbor. Anyone could be a friend or – worse – an accomplice. Even if he did manage to find the pickpocket, it would be little consolation in the end if he ended up with a shank in the back. The thought of swallowing his pride and letting the theft go – likely having to go ask Reginald for a stipend of bottle caps to survive on – did not sit well with him.
He didn’t see or hear the stranger sidle up alongside him until the last second. Vic turned to face him, eyebrows shooting up as he offered the meat vendor enough caps to cover his order before offering him a bit of “friendly advice”. Alcaraz reached down instinctively, once again patting himself down until he felt a familiar weight in one pocket. He surreptitiously fished the purse out and peeked inside. The amount looked right… save a few caps. He glanced up at the bottle caps the vendor was now setting aside in the old Pre-War cash register behind his stall and shot the ever-so-helpful stranger a knowing glance before packing his wallet away (more securely this time).
He considered the man’s question a moment before speaking. “Going… soon enough,” he remarked flatly. “You?” If the man expected any thanks from him, it wouldn’t be forthcoming. Vicente was not wholly ignorant of these types of towns. He knew there was a better-than-even chance that this stranger was the one who had stolen from him in the first place. Or, at the very least, that he was working with the thief and had only returned the caps in an attempt to generate goodwill: likely looking to set up some future con that was all the more profitable and dangerous than some hoodlum rifling through one's pockets.
Still, he took the moment waiting for an answer to give this potential Good Samaritan/thief/conman a closer inspection. He was of average height and not all that imposing at a glance… but like most of Goodneighbor’s residents, it was clear with even a cursory inspection that he didn’t lead a luxurious life. The brown duster he wore was rough and weather-beaten… but strangely enough, his clothes seemed to bear the worst of it. His caramel skin didn’t betray any wrinkles or scars or injection sites like so many others around them or even Vic himself... at least none that Alcaraz could see and he was quick to cut off his inspection before the man might take notice.
Karcen
Ten Thousand Club
Nicola hadn't really expected to find much here so she wasn't exactly disheartened, this would not be the first place they had needed to stay awhile. She had been wandering for nearly a decade and it only took around a year in the old days to walk the length of America, and today that was around the same with some luck so it would not take her 10 years to get here. Justin had in truth found more than she expected a mostly intact ultrasound machine. The wasteland was full of machinery that had sat around to long to be useful and most medical equipment had been forgotten. There could be uses for such a machine though explaining it to most people outside of the parody that was the NCR was pointless. Well they would need some way to make a living while they were here, research took caps.
Nicola moved looking over the machine, she knew most medical equipment by heart after the explosion. The uses for an ultrasound were many. The question was was it worth more as scrap or as a working machine. " Depends do you want to open a clinic? " Nicola asked as unless they used it she doubted anyone here would understand what any of it meant. Nicola did tend to look down on people from the wastes, it was something she had been taught in the Enclave and never really went away. She didn't speak of it much, but outside of people she knew she tended to soon wastelanders as just a step above tribals. Those tribals had annoyingly defeated the Enclave twice though.
It was then in the silence of the building that Nicola heard something moving, foot falls through dead halls, but they weren't right they felt mechanical. People tended to have a rhythm that wasn't perfect unless they were drilled hard and even then that was mostly for show, but here in this dead place there was no place to move like that. " Get down" Nicola told Justin as she whipped around just as 5 of the skeletal machines entered the room. Generation 1 synths. They leveled their weapons in an instant and fired. The lasers shot out blue light that struck Nicola's dark armor. her armor however had energy weapons in mind in terms of extra defense so such attacks were unlikely to do much. Taking the hail of laser fire and not flinching Nicola pulled out her plasma rifle, an old enclave model that were seen rarely in the wastes, and took aim.
Nicola pulled the trigger and unleashed the ball of super heated gauss at the metal and plastic man. The good while not being the hardest hitting thing was super ehated. This heat was enough that it melted through the thin metal supports and wires destroying the internal components of the machine. That was one down, but The other four were still shooting and it was only a matter of time before one of them hit a weak point.
Namazu
Baron of Bad Boys
MICAIAH 'MIC' SOLOMON
GOODNEIGHBOR - MARKETS
EARLY EVENING
Mic cast a glance up and down Vicente - judgmental and appraising at the same time. He couldn’t place whether the jumpsuit was a uniform and whose it was, but it was definitely giving him uniform vibes. Someone in uniform was definitely worth keeping an eye on, one way or another.
“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for at the market here? I’ve been to Goodneighbor a few times, and I know some folks around here, if you need any recommendations on what’s worth your caps.”
Over Vicente’s shoulder, he noticed a trio of men watching them just a little too close for his comfort. They were dressed mostly in rags, but as one of them lifted his arm to take a cigarette from between his lips and flick the ash, he caught sight of the edge of some cobbled-together raider armor underneath those rags. They were all visibly armed, with pistols at their hips. One had a rifle slung over his shoulder, and another was picking his nails with a knife that looked balanced for throwing.
Flashing Vicente a smile, he leaned in closer to the man, trying to make it look like he was buttering the guy up for something as he dropped his voice.
“Don’t turn around, don’t react yet, but we got some dirtbags eyeballing us both at your six. Maybe you more than me. You know how to use that pistol on your leg, or is that just for show?”
To his credit, Mic already had one hand subtly sliding under his coat, presumably to grab his own weapon. A crowbar with a half of a saw blade welded onto it dangled at his hip, but he was reaching for something smaller at his side. A firearm, most likely, given the bit of distance between them and the suspicious trio.
"Whatever you do next, don't go into an alleyway."
Safton
Mr. Heartbreaker
Vicente "Vic" Alcaraz
Goodneighbor - Market
If this stranger had been put off by or even noticed Vicente’s terse reply to his helpfulness and generosity, he gave no indication of it. Instead the man launched seamlessly into a casual reply to his own question, as if they were old friends. He got the idea that this man was a talker and a good one at that. Vicente had met plenty of talkers in his time. Reginald was one: all silver tongues and honeyed words even as he had convinced his parents to sign years of their child’s life away. Vicente was not a talker; his talents lay elsewhere – namely in spotting the bullshit of men like him when they tried to peddle it.
Alcaraz pursed his lips as the stranger offered to serve as his impromptu guide in Goodneighbor. The alarm bells rang louder in his head. After all, he hadn’t forgotten his initial assessment of the man: that he was just as likely the thief or in league with said thief and working an angle on Vic even now. Extending a helping hand and steering him toward whatever his heart desired in this seedy little town did little to disabuse him of that notion. The Paladin was about to openly state as much when he felt it: a niggling sensation on his back. A chill down his spine. Years of instinct, fine-tuned in the swamp and the mountains and the trail.
The feeling of being watched.
Somehow he wasn’t surprised when the “helpful” stranger said the magic words, announcing that they had some company watching the two of them too closely for comfort. Vicente gritted his teeth and glanced down at the pistol his acquaintance had indicated. “I know how to use it well enough,” he said – the statement was delivered flatly, matter-of-factly, without any trace of arrogance. As simple as stating the color of the sky or the height of a person. The remark was as much a veiled threat for the stranger benefit as it was a promise of assistance. After all… the arrival of these thugs shortly after the theft and subsequent return of his caps was all a little too convenient for his liking.
He leaned against the stall of the meat vendor, mentally calculating how long it would take for him to clear the massive pistol from its holster, bring it to bear on the closest thug, and fire. There might be bystanders, too. And he had no idea if the person next to him was friend or foe, regardless of what he professed.
“Hm,” Vic grunted, reaching down to grab a piece of radstag flank. He tore off a bite, chewing it thoughtfully before nodding to the stranger as if to say You were right. Then, with a casual ease, he packed up the food. “I hate waitin’,” he muttered under his breath… and strode directly toward the thugs behind them. The crew seemed to be briefly taken aback by the large, jumpsuit-clad man advancing on them them before electing to step to the side of the narrow street and let him pass. Vicente walked on, purposefully, until he reached the nearest alleyway and disappeared from view – looking over his shoulder to see the crew trading confused glances with one another just before he rounded the corner.
It wasn’t long before the ringleader of the would-be muggers appeared around that same corner, a grin of excitement and confidence plastered on his face… until the heavy wooden butt of the 12.7mm pistol smashed into his nose, shattering the cartilage and sending blood pouring from it like a faucet as he let out a wail of shocked pain. Vic grabbed the stunned man by the shoulders, forcefully spinning him around and looping his free arm around his neck, tightening his grip as he brought his pistol to bear on the others who were just now entering the alley with dumbfounded looks. One or two went for their weapons, only for the Paladin to level his handgun at them. “Drop ‘em and walk away,” he growled. “Or else we find out how many of you I can put down before you get me. I’ll take the over on that.”
NanLia
the one and only
AVA PEARSON
VAULT #44
Namazu
Baron of Bad Boys
MICAIAH 'MIC' SOLOMON
GOODNEIGHBOR - MARKETS
EARLY EVENING
“Oh my god, an actual dumbass.” Mic huffed and, against his better judgment, followed the thugs. Not all the way down the street - no, he wasn’t going to be joining the other fish in the barrel. Instead, Mic slipped inside an abandoned building at the edge of the street. It was dark inside, but he knew this building well enough, having squatted there for the night a few times. The stairs up to the second floor were partially busted, but he sprinted up two steps at a time until he found the window he needed. Outside was a balcony, steady and safe to climb still because of its concrete design, but the railing was metal and rusted away enough that he could easily push it out of the way. He hopped onto a ledge, about as narrow as the length of his foot, and followed that for a few feet - carefully keeping his balance. Straight across from the ledge was another building, one low and rectangular, with a brick chimney that still stood upright. The building was at the end of the alleyway that he was pretty sure the man in the jumpsuit had turned down. If he was right, the chimney would give him good cover. He’d be at the man’s backside looking down the alley, but the height should give him a better vantage point. Better than just walking on down the alley right behind the thugs.
His steps were almost silent as he crossed the roof of the building, shedding his jacket so he could slip out his compound bow. He had hidden it underneath his jacket, not wanting to bring more attention to himself, but now he had need of it. A gun would work just fine, but it was also louder, and this would probably be better handled silently.
Kneeling behind the chimney, Mic slipped a few arrows from his bag and knocked one, pulling back the weapon with ease. Steadying his breathing, he aimed at the thug closest to the man in the jumpsuit.
Mic was just about ready to let loose the arrow when a gunshot rang out, and he saw something tumble down from the rooftop of the taller building ahead of himself and to the side. He froze, watching the object fall. It was a pipe pistol… and a severed hand. It left bloody streaks down the side of the building until it hit the ground with a wet noise.
The two thugs on the ground looked up when they heard their counterpart scream. It gave Mic the perfect opportunity to act before they could. As the thug closest to Vicente looked up, Mic adjusted his aim and let go. The arrow whistled through the air and hit home, going straight through the thug’s neck and lodging itself there. The thug gargled uselessly as he dropped to the ground, unmoving. He was probably alive just long enough to see the shoes of his companion behind him start to step away.
Mic had already ducked behind the chimney as soon as he saw his shot landed. There was another shooter up here somewhere, but he couldn’t see where. It was a good thing they were shooting at the same targets - for now - but he wasn’t about to risk putting himself out in the open visually. With two down and two left, hopefully Jumpsuit Man down there could handle that much.
“What part of the words coming out of my mouth didn’t make sense to you when I said ‘don’t go in the alleyway’?!” He called down to Vicente, readying a second arrow just in case he needed it.
“Was it the ‘don’t’ part, the ‘go’ part, or the part about the alleway?” He peeked around the chimney, still trying to find the other shooter, but he saw nothing. How damned far away was this person?
