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 Posted: Fri Jun 29, 2012 4:23 pm
╔═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ T H E ♦ R O L E P L A Y
This is the Central Wasteland, which includes the dry New York bay and the city itself. The ruined cityscape looms over the landscape and is heavily populated by feral ghouls, super mutants, soldiers from Black Company, and small detachments of the Brotherhood of Steel. The dry bay is where most of the wastelanders live now and it has become the home of raiders, mercenary companies, radscorpions, radroaches, mole rats, and every other horror the wasteland holds. You are one of these many wastelanders, spending your days in the deep south of the dry bay. You are lightly equipped, wearing only your dirty clothes and carrying maybe a 10mm pistol or lead pipe with a few bottles of dirty water. You have no home, only the shelter you find in this wasteland and you tend to drift from one place to another. You are not by any means, living a luxurious lifestyle. Each day you scrap by with a few measly caps to buy food from one of the settlements or find your own out in the desert.
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Posted: Tue Jul 10, 2012 10:37 pm
╔════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════W I L L I A M ♦ W A S H I N G T O N
"I like very few things. Smoothskins is not one of them, but if you find any cigarettes or whiskey, let me know." [Hangman's Respite]
☣
William sighed, casting aside his last cigarette, which was little more than a dead butt, into a small pile he had assembled after going through an entire pack over the course of two hours. Terrible for his health, true, but being a ghoul he figured his health had probably gone to s**t ages ago. He sat on an old tire on the outskirts of a little town of deadbeats called Hangman's Respite. It was so named because the whole town had been built out of what remained of an old fishing boat down in the Dry Bay, named the Hangman. So the town came to be named after the boat and now stood as a little speck of wreckage in the Central Wasteland. It was home to more than a few disreputable fellows, though that head count could easily include William. Drunkards and chem addicts were common enough and occasionally mercs came through. They stayed long enough to break something or kill some no name before moving on. Merchant caravans usually avoided the area due to a number of raider camps in the area, which tended to keep to themselves unless they grew bored. Hangman's Respite had nothing of value. Most residents were broke, usually because they were either robbed or spent every cap on more chems. There was no armory and few people kept their valuables in their houses, though just about everyone kept a sidearm on them for personal security – William included. So unless a person armed to the teeth came through looking for either a fight or the usual junk you could find everywhere else in the wasteland, they would be wasting their time robbing the place. Part of the reason William still hung out around town was because it had nothing of value and was usually left alone. Every night he slept near the outskirts of town, just out of sight behind tires and dried bushes, so someone wouldn't sneak up and kill him in his sleep. In the early hours of the morning he would drink a beer or some whiskey if there was any, munch down on some irradiated radroach meat, and make his way out into the wastes for the better part of the day to scavenge for food, water, supplies, or just some scrap metal to sell. Most days he ended up with rusted tin cans or empty soda bottles. Some days he found a good spot that just happened to be teeming with raiders or super mutants. It was only on the very rare occasion that he would have the fortune to come across something decent without too much trouble. His best haul, which was nine years ago, up near the city, was a crate full of warm, flat, and delicious nuka-cola. William had a thing with nuka-cola. He could never sell the stuff. He always felt a bit guilty at the thought of selling it, so he would just sit down somewhere shady and enjoy himself a few bottles of the stuff. Sure it wasn't cold, but it seemed to remind him of better days – before the war and the bombs falling. He'd scarcely seen a bottle of nuka-cola since that haul nine years ago, so he kept to his whiskey. Though at the moment, he was yearning more for a bottle of vodka than whiskey. The sun was high in the sky and it shone down fiercely upon William's pale, rotten flesh. The simple heat made him wish for skin and hair again.
☣
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Weapons: [✘]10mm pistol
Apparel: [✘]merc grunt outfit
Aid:dirty water (2)
Misc:caps (15)
Ammo:10mm rounds (50)
What's on the Radio: Way Back Home
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Posted: Tue Jul 24, 2012 4:01 pm
"It's all up in the air." [CENTRAL WASTELAND] ---------- The mercenary's whack to Mercury's face sent her smashing underneath a table of wasted townies. They goaded her as she popped her jaw into place and backed under the table, pleased that in addition to enough whiskey to drown a brahmin in, this joint had offered them some real entertainment. She spat blood at their poking feet and ran her tongue over her teeth, making sure that the drunken bastards hadn't acquired any new souvenirs.
The merc was perched with his back to the bar counter, one massive boot on the footrest, the other planted firmly on the ground. His elbows balanced on the edge of the surface behind him. After receiving a vicious insult from this bartender and punching the mouthy b***h, he'd asked the other server to refill his drink. His hulking frame was covered in rough, dusted leather, which did not conceal the arsenal of weapons that were strapped to his hips and back. From this side of the bar, his guns were larger and more defined than when she had been making him a drink earlier; his rock-solid punch had done a hell of job of bringing her down from the hit of jet she'd taken in the back about 20 minutes ago. His two buddies perked up at the other end of the bar, highly amused, but not surprised that their friend had gotten plastered enough to knock a member of this pathetic town, especially a woman, on her a** in public. The sound of breaking glass and commotion attracted the patrons of the bar like moths to a flame and shrill shouts and laughter accompanied the merc's low, callous chuckle. Mercury stared at the circle of sun-cracked faces of the citizens of Hangman's Respite, blood-shot eyes wide at the promise of violence. "Christ, they can smell a fight a mile a way," she thought.
Her eyes flicked up behind the counter to Jack. Drinks were spilled all over the surface of the bar, reflecting the neon light of the beat-up jukebox in the corner, which played a cheerful pre-war tune. “Get out of this one yourself,” Jack's eyes said to her as he began to sop up the mess, never looking away as he scooped an undamaged cup and flipped it over to dry. Mercury could see that his shoulders were high and tense and his teeth were clenched behind the straight line of his lips. Infuriated, Jack's temples throbbed as he watched Mercury cower under the goon he'd warned her about when he wandered in, already drunk, with his band of armed friends. Sensing no help from her partner, Mercury's gaze shifted to the giant Mercenary looming above her. She crawled out from under the table and stumbled up, craving another hit of Jet to make the stinging in her jaw go away. Her eyelids twitched at the merc's heavy mask of drunken blood-lust and she tried to control the pain that began to spread to her neck, not wanting to look like even more of an idiot by showing anyone how hard the hit had really been.
"Anything else you wanna say to me?" He asked, thrusting his chest forward, involuntarily causing her to recoil further back and bump into the table she'd been hiding under. The crowd jeered. "Or have I taught you to think before you speak?"
Mercury didn't say a word. Even if she wanted to, her mouth was filling with blood and she didn't have the balls to spit it out while this man remained honed in on her.
Having proved his point, the Merc finished his drink in one gulp and moved toward the exit. "The next time you talk to me like that you'll be dead." He loaded his rifle, motioned to his companions to follow, and the mercenaries left out the door, their drunken laughter still audible as they headed to another saloon in the west part of the town.
A moment of tense silence passed as the bar patrons continued to watch Mercury. She spat more blood on the floor, barked a long stream of curses at them, and stalked to the back room behind the bar, anxious hide her humiliation and anger from the disgusting members of this sorry little place. ---------- Weapon: Sawed-off Shotgun
Ammo: Shotgun shell (x6)
Apparel: Merc Adventurer Outfit
Chems: Jet (x1), Buffout (x4)
Misc: Bobby Pin (x3) What's on the Radio: Crazy He Calls Me
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Posted: Tue Jul 24, 2012 6:18 pm
╔════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════W I L L I A M ♦ W A S H I N G T O N
"I like very few things. Smoothskins is not one of them, but if you find any cigarettes or whiskey, let me know." [Hangman's Respite]
☣
William rubbed his hands, propped against the wooden surface of the shop counter, glancing around as he waited. A cardboard box sat in front of him, filled with his monthly earnings – rusty tin cans, empty bottles, burned books, an 8-ball, abraxo cleaner, ashtrays, detergent, butter knives, broken plates. Every bit of scrap he could find and could possibly sell. He stood there, scratching his head as his fingers drummed the counter top. There were maybe three or four stores in town, including a weapon store and general store. However, if someone wanted to sell useless junk, there was only one place to go – Caleb's Junk. William had known the man for a few years, ever since he had wandered into Hangman's Respite. Back then he had suggested Caleb change the shop's name, but to no avail. He was as stubborn as smoothskins came. William had no love for smoothskins, but Caleb wasn't the worst person to do business with. On the otherhand, he wasn't the most well kept. His store looked more like an old garage that had been abandoned in a hurry. The front was small and bisected by shelving, which displayed simple goods like cram and mutfruit. Dandy boy apples, gum drops, potatoes, iguana bits, and bottles of dirty water were placed on the top shelf – thrown together without any organization. Dog meat, sugar bombs, radroach meat, and noodles covered the second shelf, though the meat had obviously gone bad long ago. Now the second shelf was a pleasant little home for maggots and flies. On either side of the store was either a table or a burnt out fridge with various other commodities spilling onto the floor. Coffee pots, mugs, packs of cigarettes, empty whiskey bottles, milk bottles, flour, and a plunger had all been stuffed into the warm fridge while a crutch, a vacuum cleaner, and a pile of scrap metal decorated the table on the opposite side. Things were falling off and out of their storage area, gathering in small clusters on the floor amidst foul smelling, yellow pools. William shook his head in mild disbelief with a sigh. “F**k's taking him?” he thought aloud. Caleb had disappeared into the back a few minutes ago and William could hear him rustling through dusty old books, paper, and trash. How the man found anything in this godforsaken dump was well beyond him.
Fifteen minutes passed before Caleb finally re-emerged from the back of the store, bearing something small and black in a bundle under his arm. The man was skinny and pale with a shaggy bit of dusting on his chin. He wore a tanned leather jacket over a stained white shirt with camo pants and a brotherhood holotag hung around his neck. William knew he had gotten it about a year ago off a dead brotherhood of steel member he had found out in the wastes, but Caleb always liked to tell people a bullshit story about how he was once a brotherhood member. Said he had killed radscorpions and deathclaws years ago and then he sold his armor to open a shop here. The people around Hangman's Respite weren't fooled in the least, but occasionally he got some no wit traveler to belief him. “Well, for the usual I can get you...maybe seventeen caps,” he said, shrugging, which William knew meant that the final payout would be lower than that. “Seventeen caps? Stop bulls**tting me Caleb! I worked my a** off to get this stuff and its more than my usual haul!” William's hands shifted through the contents of the cardboard box, showing the shopkeeper everything he had gathered. Caleb shrugged again with a sorry expression. “Hey, what can I say? People aren't in the market for empty bottles and rusty bits.” William rolled his eyes and smacked his head against the counter with an audible “F**k!” Caleb set down his bundle and leaned forward. “Caleb, you gotta get me more than that,” William said, lifting his head. “How am I supposed to survive a month on seventeen caps?” he asked. Caleb licked his lips and glanced at the store entrance. “Actually,” he started, “I might have something for you. A job with good pay.” William's eyes brightened at the prospect of a well paying job. “Really? What's this...job, involve?” Caleb smiled and wrapped the bundle with extreme care. “This is a sensor module. Some fella, nice guy with deep pockets, found this and a place that's loaded with them. Old computer factory or something.” William gave Caleb a look that told him to get to the good part. He didn't really bother with details. Caleb smiled wider, tapping the module with his index finger. “Alright, well this guy wants the sensor modules in that factory. Problem is, someone beat him to it. The whole place is a raider infested s**thole.” William rubbed his brow with an expression that spoke of an internal debate. “So, I just have to fight my way into a raider hideout, pick up these sensor modules and get back without getting a bullet put between my eyes?” he asked, his voice thick with sarcasm. Caleb grinned and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket that was covered in dirt. “I hear there's one thousand caps in it for anyone who brings those modules. Twenty is all he needs, but there's a bonus for extra work.” William snatched the paper out of his hand and tossed the shopkeeper a glare as he unfolded the sheet and read it to himself. Finally he said, “Well, I guess I am in need of some extra guns.” Caleb stroked his bristles and pointed to the door. “To the saloon?” William slammed the paper on the counter and nodded. “To the saloon,” he reiterated.
☣
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Weapons: [✘]10mm pistol
Apparel: [✘]merc grunt outfit
Aid:dirty water (2)
Misc:caps (15)
Ammo:10mm rounds (50)
What's on the Radio: Way Back Home
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