Fallout | Never played Fallout 3 before |
- Never played Fallout 3 before
- Poor Ulysses is the most patient man in the westland
- Would you want Fallout 5 to be post apocalyptic or post-post apocalyptic?
- In defense of FO4 Father's "You wouldn't understand" line
- How do you beat that god awful isolate the virus mission in fnv
- Shower thought: The spartel-wood 9000 in new Vegas is from Appalachia, and is really a ultracite gatling laser some scavenger brought west without knowing what it really was. Similarly, the AER 14 in vault 22 uses a sample of ultracite in its creation (however it got there, probably pre-war).
- Minecraft fallout world.
- Who’s your favorite one note or joke character?
- Why is fallout4 dlc region locked?
- Cleveland for Fallout 5
- Sierra Madre Ghost?
- where was the nuke's crash site that you see at the start of fallout 4 can you go there in game
- New Vegas Sleeper Agent Challenge
- Name a less interesting location for a fallout game than New York
- *POTENTIAL SPOILERS* Did people make it out of Vault 111?
- What's you're favourite soundtrack from the fallout franchise
- Will they ever make Fallout 3 & Fallout New Vegas REMAKE for next gen consoles?
- Something I’ve noticed about House’s reasoning
- 2. Back in the Saddle
- what are the best starting stats for a assassin character in fallout 4
- Fallout 4 on gpd win 2
| Posted: 01 Mar 2021 06:06 PM PST With how much I love Skyrim and TES in general, Fallout was one of those games that was on my list, and I just never got around to it. I finally said enough is enough and played it... and yea I'm addicted already. This screenshot in general made me freeze and just stare at it. I love how much detail and lore is in this game, and I feel I have a lot to look forward to on my playthrough!! [link] [comments] |
| Poor Ulysses is the most patient man in the westland Posted: 01 Mar 2021 07:07 AM PST I am playing Lonesome Road for the first time, and it is the second time that I have to go back into the Mojave to unload the tons of equipment that I am finding lying around for safe storage. Poor Ulysses has been there waiting for weeks while I quietly go back and forth, now I understand why he hates me so much. (p.s. I haven't finished the dlc yet, no spoilers thanks) [link] [comments] |
| Would you want Fallout 5 to be post apocalyptic or post-post apocalyptic? Posted: 01 Mar 2021 08:40 PM PST Basically what I'm asking is: Would you want a world like Fallout 3, with little to no rebuilding done after the bombs, or a world like Fallout 4, somewhat rebuilt with few established factions (but each dedicated to their own goal, rather than the same)? [link] [comments] |
| In defense of FO4 Father's "You wouldn't understand" line Posted: 01 Mar 2021 06:04 PM PST Whenever the topic of writing or dialogue comes up between Obsidian and Bethesda or New Vegas and Fallout 4, there's always some grimy gremlin who has to interject with the ol' Ceasar vs. Father comment. If asked to explain their actions, Caesar will go in depth with it all, Hegelian Dialectics and all that like a villain going on a monologue, because that's what he is and that's what he's doing. Father, meanwhile, goes on to sum up their actions with the ol' "you wouldn't understand", even though you can learn more through digging and doing your own research rather than sitting back and having some narcisist explain it to you like you're a starving college student in a lecture. What I'm about to go into is the idea that Father isn't saying "you wouldn't understand" to us, the players, but rather to the Sole Survivor, among other things. See, in Fallout New Vegas, we play as The Courier or Courier Six, and the only thing we really know about them is that they delivered a spicy, explosive package to The Divide. The rest is up to interpretation, which I'm going to say is just peachy and totally fine and good for Roleplaying. This doesn't help to explain why Six should care about the fate of the Mojave, but this rant isn't about that. In Fallout 3 and 4, we play as an established character, such as the son/daughter of James born in Vault 101 or a US Soldier/Lawyer who lived before the bombs dropped. In Fallout 4 we're basically given Commander Shephard to play with, and just like in Mass Effect, we're able to spice up the character a bit to our liking. Sure, the SS was a US Soldier, but maybe he was a combat engineer or intelligence officer, for instance. Anyway, we get to Father, and when asked to explain himself by the Sole Survivor, he states "you wouldn't understand". And Father's just about right in this assessment. Nevermind your opinion on The Institute and their goals, let's look at it from Father's perspective. Sure, he's the son of the Sole Survivor, but that's in name only. If Father feels any emotional attachment towards their genetic mother or father, it hardly influences their decision-making at all. A clever, resourceful wastelander from that cesspit of inhumanity we call the Commonwealth manages to finesse themselves into The Institute, but that doesn't mean they can even begin to comprehend what Father and the rest of the Institute are capable of, let alone what they have done. If average gameplay is anything to go by, the Sole Survivor has only been a part of the Commonwealth Wasteland for about a week, maybe a month, before meeting up with Father in The Institute. "Synth" wasn't even in the dictionary for the SS before the Great War. Unlike the Ghouls who survived and lived through the Great War, the SS missed well over 200 years of technological progress and so much more. In Father's eyes he's essentially talking to a neanderthal- how does a knuckle-dragging soldier or by-the-book lawyer, both pre-war, even begin to comprehend what The Institute stands for? What keeps the SS from becoming a test subject for The Institute is that Father believes that they're useful, like a tool. A horribly outdated tool, but a tool nonetheless. And yes, as The Institute questline progresses, Father gradually comes to appreciate the SS more and is more forthcoming with information, but it's that first moment that matters. And let's not pretend that Caesar wouldn't do the same if he were in such a position. He's just like Father, or Father's just like Caesar. They're both egotistical idealists. Also, on the subject, if Robert House knew about The Institute and knew that they were replacing human beings with obedient Synths, he'd be totally on board. Having a bunch of obedient followers who'll dance to his every tune is exactly what he'd want instead of having to wrangle 'tribals' and undesirables. So, again, Father isn't saying that you, the player, wouldn't understand, he's saying that the Sole Survivor wouldn't understand. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. And no, I don't have a Todd Howard dakimakura, but by god I really want one. [link] [comments] |
| How do you beat that god awful isolate the virus mission in fnv Posted: 02 Mar 2021 02:16 AM PST |
| Posted: 01 Mar 2021 08:15 PM PST Just a shower thought, since these weapons all use green lasers. [link] [comments] |
| Posted: 01 Mar 2021 06:43 PM PST I have a private realm on Minecraft and I'm just looking for some people interested in building and working on it. I have a major city built with highways and other details. It's not solely based on anything specific yet but creative designs and ideas, All are welcome who are interested in building or adding to the map please PM me or comment interest. We have a discord server available as well. Thank you if you took the time to read this post. [link] [comments] |
| Who’s your favorite one note or joke character? Posted: 01 Mar 2021 08:13 PM PST |
| Why is fallout4 dlc region locked? Posted: 01 Mar 2021 07:30 PM PST So I got fallot 4 g.o.t.y edition for ps4 and I went to download the dlc and the code said not available in region/country, I thought is it because it's rated pegi 18? Some kinda alstrailan version? I ordered the M rating version on amazon meybe that won't be region locked, is this the problem or is it user error? [link] [comments] |
| Posted: 01 Mar 2021 08:55 AM PST Think about it, The city was founded in 1796 so you'd be able to enjoy the historical aspect like in fallout 3 & 4 with monuments and buildings (not to mention Rockefeller lived here so maybe a personal vault where his brain is kept alive?) We have so many venues of attractions like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (imagine getting a legendary guitar melee weapon) and the Cleveland Botanical Garden (Vault 22 anyone?) We also have salt mines deep under the city which could open the possibility of new creepy monsters and the Cuyahoga National Park is huge and could serve as a forested wasteland similar to Fallout 76. And to top it off, we're exactly 6 hours from most major cities and other locations, so DLC pertaining to our immediate area would be amazing (revisit the Pitt, see a Toronto under American control to elaborate on the American annexation, sail to the Lake Erie islands and get Far Harbor / Point Lookout vibes) What do you guys think? [link] [comments] |
| Posted: 02 Mar 2021 05:07 AM PST So I've loved the message behind all the DLCs in New Vegas and I will admit I haven't played New Vegas but I always remember the final broad coast I played it in my travels when I faced Ulyesses before the dam. And it made the conflict somehow seem small but as I was thinking about I realized who switched the radio broad coast did she record it before she died and it just fit is it the follower with her voice .... I think to think its Vera's spirit giving you the final message as if doing this quest has some how brought her piece but if there is a reason and it's not that please let me know [link] [comments] |
| where was the nuke's crash site that you see at the start of fallout 4 can you go there in game Posted: 01 Mar 2021 05:26 PM PST |
| New Vegas Sleeper Agent Challenge Posted: 01 Mar 2021 09:33 AM PST Alright, here's my dumb challenge run for Fallout New Vegas. Your character is a sleeper agent of some sort, and their trigger phrase is "Patrolling the Mojave Almost Makes You wish for a nuclear winter!" If an NPC utters that phrase, you go into "Murder mode" for five minutes, and must shoot anyone you see for the next five minutes; except for the person that said the phrase (even if they're shooting at you). You may not kill any NCR soldiers outside of "murder mode"; even if they're shooting at you. If your companions kill any NCR soldiers, it counts as you killing them. You have to get the NCR ending to complete the run. Because doing the other endings would make this too easy. [link] [comments] |
| Name a less interesting location for a fallout game than New York Posted: 01 Mar 2021 10:24 PM PST I am always confused when people suggest this as a location. What is so special about New York as a location compared to literally any other city? I get that it is a very popular locale I just can't imagine an interesting plot for the location that would be unique to the area. Fallout 3 has the capital wasteland to drive home what is lost and lend credence to the enclaves goals. Boston is used because CIT (MIT) is a tech hub and the perfect locale for a science gone awry plot (even if I feel like it wasn't implemented in the best way). What does New York even have? Off the top of my head, the two most well known aspects to the city are Wallstreet and Broadway. Finance and theater. I can't possibly imagine a plot coming from that. [link] [comments] |
| *POTENTIAL SPOILERS* Did people make it out of Vault 111? Posted: 01 Mar 2021 04:35 PM PST I've always wondered this. When you wake up, if you read some of the terminals in the vault you can find that the security personnel and the scientists had a little war. The scientists demanded the security give up their food and weapons. One of the terminal entries says that they are getting out of there one way or the other. Most of the skeletons you find are wearing lab coats. Even if they are dead (because it was probably years before you wake up), did other people make it out of Vault 111? [link] [comments] |
| What's you're favourite soundtrack from the fallout franchise Posted: 02 Mar 2021 04:57 AM PST |
| Will they ever make Fallout 3 & Fallout New Vegas REMAKE for next gen consoles? Posted: 02 Mar 2021 04:39 AM PST I know there are mods out there that enhance the graphics but that's for PC. [link] [comments] |
| Something I’ve noticed about House’s reasoning Posted: 01 Mar 2021 04:43 AM PST House basically says the NCR and Legion aren't actual progression because they're regurgitations of the past, but is he not doing the same thing by basing the 3 families on Pre war culture and style? [link] [comments] |
| Posted: 02 Mar 2021 02:37 AM PST The case of the .357 Magnum cartridge is about 3.4 mm longer than that of the .38 Special and has significantly greater ballistic performance. Handling the recoil created during firing, presents a challenge even for skilled shooters, making rapid firing generally impossible or less effective. The slow rate of fire of a single action revolver is therefore rarely an additional limitation in this context. Rather, the increased reliability of the closed system carries an asset in weapon maintenance compared to other double action concepts with swing-out barrels. Most wastelanders, however, value the .357 more for one of its other characteristics. It makes big holes. The tube emits a metallic crackle and signs off with a small, hopeless burst of sparks. Trudy sighs and puts the radio back behind the counter. The old thing had served her faithfully since she opened her saloon here several years ago. Actually, the saloon was already standing. In fact, she had gotten behind the counter and started selling drinks and preparing primitive meals. When Goodsprings became something like a small town, people had other things to worry about than fixing up the saloon. But by the time Trudy had sanded down the bar, cleaned the glasses and scared away the Radroaches, no one wanted to miss out. "Sometimes we don't realize we need something until we have it". That, or something like it, was how she remembered a calendar saying she found in the junk and debris pile of the saloon. A calendar from 2077, goodness knows how long ago that might have been. Arithmetic had never been Trudie's weakness. On the contrary, she could bamboozle every fourth dealer into giving her more Brahmin steaks for less than the agreed price. But if you don't know what year it currently is, no amount of talent for algebra will help you figure out how long ago the year 2077 might have been. A heavy clap snaps Trudy out of her daydreams as six scaly gecko skins hit the counter behind her back. "S'up, Trudy? I'll let my half dozen friends rest here for a minute, aight?". Sunny Smiles doesn't wait for an answer and opens a can of dog food. She plucks out a fingertip of meat, swipes the minute amount of the niche culinary product on her tongue, chews through it all at length, and with a shrug swallows the preserved contents. She then picks up a plate, flips the can upside down, and stares indifferently at the cylindrical gloop that slowly tilts to the side and collapses with a soft smacking sound. "Sunny, I've told you several times to take your shit straight to Chet. What am I supposed to do with it? Now I've got half the mojave and gecko parts on the counter again!" "So you got all of the mojave on the counter, what are you complaining about?" the huntress retorts, setting the plate on the floor. On her side of the counter, something at floor level slurps and slobbers its way over the unexpected meal. "We were hungry, Trudy. And Cheyenne had a hankering for Mr. New Vegas. You of all people should understand that, right?" "We're going to have to do without Mr. New Vegas for a while," Trudy fears. "The radio finally gave up. I guess those rioters the other day finally did the old thing in..." "It's a damn shame," Sunny mutters, opening a bottle of Nuka Cola. "The stranger got it worse". "Depends how you look at it," Trudy retorts. "They say he's back on his feet. Doc Mitchell just knows his business." Sunny sets her bottle down on the counter and looks at Trudy incredulously, "He's walking around? Doc Mitchell may not have fallen on his head, but the stranger must be the son of a Deathclaw and a Cazador. Why am I just finding out about this now?" "Because it's my job to know things," Trudy says, smiling conspiratorially. "More information is exchanged at my counter than STDs on the Strip!" "You're exaggerating. You're exaggerating and you're disgusting." Sunny throws the fresh gecko skins over her shoulder and turns around, "Come on Cheyenne! We'll leave Trudy to her fantasies and pay Chet the stingy bastard a visit!" Trudy glances after Sunny as she saunters out of her saloon. Out back, her dog Cheyenne. Shiny fur. Four legs. A wagging tail. "Nice, actually," she thinks. Then memories of the rest of the litter come to her. She feels sick and turns to her radio, turning it on out of habit and cringing as the tube bursts. Shards, nausea, and a dirty counter. Before the war, Goodsprings was a small town on the side of Interstate 15, where travelers only passed by while getting lost and/or refueling on the way to Las Vegas. Some 200 years later, the town again enjoys the importance it owes to its founding and naming some 400 years ago - drinking water and a good spring. To the water came the big horns. To the big horns the hunters. People who wanted to eat what drinks at the spring and drink what their food drinks. The big horns multiplied. Fortunately, the big horns did not manage to drink away the water from the people, because the people managed to eat away enough big horns. Around this harmonious balance, the rebirth of Goodsprings took place. Gradually, the humans managed to domesticate the big horns. This was accomplished primarily because of the peaceful nature of these massive bovines. Had they chosen not to be domesticated, the big horns would have had the drinking water and the Goodspring to themselves in the blink of an eye. But the proud descendants of bomber pilots, industrialists and people's representatives made the earth their subject for the second time. The trade of water, fur and meat quickly formed a solid basis for a stable community. Interesting enough to fear raids and unimportant enough not to fall under the protective shield of the Republic of New California. A fate shared by quite a few settlements around the newly born New Vegas. "Easy." The man on the porch throws a single word at me. He pronounces it like an invitation, like an appeasement, a de-escalating formula. He pronounces it like a name, as if to introduce himself. Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Easy. These are my friends Difficult and Medium. Maybe it's also well-intentioned advice. To take calm down. To take it easy. I counter with a far more unequivocal "eh!". I slow down and sit on the porch steps. The saloon begins to spin around my head and I am surrounded by seven sun-tanned men who unanimously introduce themselves as "Pete." I close my eyes, take several deep breaths, and open them again. The saloon is back where it belongs and sitting in front of me is a single sun-tanned Pete. "Easy" Pete. It gets easier. The man eyes me and his thoughts remain hidden under wrinkles, a white beard and the brim of his hat. "Who are you, stranger?" "Will you believe me if I tell you I don't know my name?", I ask. "I didn't ask your name, because you don't need one. The question was, who are you?" "Why don't I need a name? You need one, too, don't you? Don't you, Easy Pete?" The man takes a deep breath and expands: "I used to be a prospector. You know, the people who spend their lives digging through the debris, leftovers and piles of garbage of past lives. The term junk collector doesn't cut it, save it. I collected weapons, medical supplies, and spare parts. I knew good spots, had an eye for the right places. That's how I made a name for myself back then. The settlements knew me, the dealers knew me. At some point, the raiders knew me, too. They followed me to my claims and wanted to relieve me of my loot several times. Well, I wasn't so easy then, and if you know a thing or two about explosives, you can win a fight before it starts." "Easy" Pete reaches into his pocket and fingers out a pouch. From his other pocket he unearths a pipe and begins to stuff tobacco from his pouch into the bowl of the pipe. When he lights it I am surprised and relieved to hear no fuse hissing. "So they knew me, they knew my name, because that was important. Because I always dealt with the same people, stayed on my claim, was at home there. When I got too old for that life and I settled down in Goodsprings with a safe distance from the NCR, I started herding big horns. And again I put down roots and again my name was important to the people I saw every day. But you stranger, you have no home. No roots. You hold a courier's pass in your hands, your boots wear at least the fifth heel, and no matter how many times you rest - you don't return home anywhere. No, stranger, people like you don't need names. And I know you'll turn your back on Goodsprings, the town that brought you back from the dead, the next chance you get. Though you almost came home in the end. If Victor hadn't found you." A Mojave Express courier is part of the attempt to civilize the wasteland of the Republic of New California. Following the mergers of the communities of Shady Sands, Junktown, the Hub, and Boneyard into an alliance, the people enjoyed something akin to security and peace for the first time since the long darkness. The newly formed republic pooled the resources of several settlements and cities, accomplishing the first step in providing the people with something approaching a dignified life. Secured caravan routes, a reasonably regulated water and food supply, and a general tendency to overcome the law of the strongest ushered in a new era. The establishment of a network of regular caravans ensured a functioning basic supply. But it was also as inert and attention-grabbing as anything. And as always, the satisfaction of basic needs was followed by cries for more extravagant privileges. A particularly fast delivery from A to B? An inconspicuous delivery to person C? The procurement of a dubious substance and discreet delivery of information to community of interest X? When the Mojave Express was founded, it set itself the goal of serving precisely these concerns reliably, quickly and discreetly. And was tremendously successful in doing so. A single messenger, a single destination, light baggage - the concept was ideal. And in a world full of hunters, trappers and trackers, full of bodyguards, mercenaries and "rehabilitated" criminals, one did not have to search long to recruit capable couriers. The candidates had to be reliable, local, tough and able to survive. And the orders of a courier can sometimes border on suicide missions, considering that every courier works alone and cannot hope for significant support anywhere. Nevertheless, good pay, the prospect of a quiet job or two, and a certain mysterious, even mystical connotation with this trade, kept the supply of new recruits coming. An official Mojave Express badge could make some security guards more cooperative, bureaucrats more hasty, and information more plentiful. But the price was high. Everyone knew about the dangers waiting in the wasteland and every recruit willingly accepted them. But absolute loneliness. A meaningless death. No one to mourn the dutiful postman, not even a grave. The epitome of homelessness and interchangeability - these were the dangers that loomed far from the young couriers' horizons. "These skins aren't as good as last time. You're getting sloppy, do you think I buy everything? Or did you just want to see me?" Chet's hands check the quality of a gecko skin. Chet's hands would rather check the quality of the huntress' skin. Chet's eyes, meanwhile, have long since refrained from looking at the hunt's prey. "You will take them Chet! You'll take them because no one else will bring you any. And you'll take them because you can't get your hand out of your pants long enough to go hunting yourself! By the way, you're going to take them all from me and you're going to pay me full price." "Sunny, Sunny..." Chet glances at the skins, puts them together dismissively and then to the side. "I'll take them all, of course, I'll take anything you give me. But I don't pay for everything, you understand me? These skins are of inferior quality, your shots have rendered parts useless besides. Which makes me wonder, I would have guessed you'd just killed these critters with your sharp tongue. But maybe it's just a loose mouth after all. I haven't heard of any dog barking its prey to death, take Cheyenne as an example. Speaking of which..." Sunny slaps the pile of gecko skins with the flat of her hand, "No, Chet! The skins are for sale, nothing else! Tell me what you're paying now and I can get out of here." "I'll take them all for 80, which is more than enough. Of course, I only have one supplier, but you also only have one customer!" As Sunny leaves Chet's store, she sees Victor making his way leisurely up the street to Doc Mitchell's house. Sunny has never been able to get used to Victor. The fact that he suddenly showed up in town one day, just stayed and quietly made his rounds was one thing. That weird cowboy act he pulled throughout was also still bearable. But that he stayed out of everything and then dragged this stranger from the graveyard one night, half dead? That made no sense at all. A soft whimper from Cheyenne brings Sunny back to reality. In prompt response, her stomach begins to remind her that she's only had a fingertip of dog food and a sip of Nuka Cola for hours. As I enter the saloon, the words of the old prospector still linger in my mind. What a performance, old man. Making big speeches and losing yourself in pathos, it's a pity you couldn't find more substantial insights in your ruins and debris. Hunger drives me to the counter. Around me the saloon sleeps, sinking into its siesta. The drovers are still busy, the hunters on the way and the craftsmen busy with their work . The saloon will fill up towards evening. As I cross the room, out of the corner of my eye I see only the shadow of a man sitting at a table. It is impossible for me to tell if he is asleep or awake. Sunk in drunkenness and shame, this half-dead man vegetates through his noon. It is these souls that gather at the edge of the Republic of New California's sphere of influence. Dispossessed, fleeing law or debt. He probably doesn't know it himself. Another one for whom there was no place in the new world. I step on a plate of leftover dog food. The clink catches the attention of a woman in her late forties. She wears a stained apron and her brown hair is tied back in a ponytail. The typical sight of a practical tough woman who would have preferred to remain impractical and soft had self-preservation instincts and necessity not pushed her to roll up her sleeves. I look into blue wide-awake eyes, this woman is similarly curiously inclined as this lizard "Easy" Pete. But she will not presume to know everything in advance. "She'll know all the more after the fact," I think and sit down on one of the bar stools. "I'm hungry and thirsty," it escapes me. "No idea what I have more of". "Caps, I hope!" the woman behind the counter replies to me. I think she's joking. "You only take caps?", I ask. "Yep... But that coke there is on the house. Sunny left it." I put the lukewarm soda to my lips and empty the bottle in one go. It's been over 200 years since this so-called war. Over 200 years and bottles of this stuff still show up. Over 200 years and the stuff doesn't taste overly life threatening. Over 200 years and the caps of this company become generally accepted as a means of payment. It was obvious that the Republic of New California had to be the top dog and started printing paper money. Official NCR dollars. With pictures of Arradesh, Tandi and Kimball. "NCR and proud!" Hell yeah, but better to make all the world dependent on your own money and economy. Some degenerate tribes want to trade and have only caps? Yeah, too bad, that's it, but you can join us. Just sign with your blood on the dotted line and wait until the application is processed 10 months later. I empty my bag on the counter and discover a small bundle of stained bills. Four tandis and a kimball look at me determinedly. I look questioningly at the woman. She looks just as determined as the tandi and kimball, but she doesn't share their conviction about the new currency. "Forget it. Until the NCR proves it has the biggest in the Mojave, their money isn't coming across my counter." "Please, I...," I'm running out of arguments. "Hey Trudy, will you get me two iguanas?" I turn to see a young woman sauntering into the saloon in a good mood. She gyrates her hips unnecessarily, and by unnecessarily I mean they would have caught my eye anyway. Behind her scurries a female dog. Shiny black fur, white paws, white ears. A wagging tail. "Nice, actually," I think. The young woman is obviously a hunter. She wears a practical lightweight leather outfit, ideal for protection from stone, dust and minor injuries. A high-quality hunting knife hangs from her belt and on her back she carries a small-caliber rifle. "Who are you?" she asks me. It doesn't matter that I don't know the answer, because I don't get to answer anyway. "That's the stranger, of course. Easily recognized by his bandage. His bandage, Sunny. You know? Doc Mitchell?" it chimes in behind me. "I'm not stupid, Trudy, I still want to know who that is! So?" I answer as best I can, "I, um, I'm a courier. I think." "Huh! I'm a huntress. I think. But my name is Sunny Smiles and yours?" She's obviously eyeing me with amusement, her right hand resting on her hip, her left elbow on the counter. But neither interested in lecturing me nor about to let me starve merely because I have only shitty NCR dollars. "Please, I'm hungry and I have only this paper money. Can you..." "Oh my goodness! Trudy is this guy supposed to survive a head shot just to starve at your counter? What's wrong with you? Come on, two iguanas on a stick for me and four for Mister "Please, I'm hungry and I have only this paper money", okay?" Sunny turns back to me, "And before you get any funny ideas - no, this is not an invitation. You've obviously already snagged my coke. We'll find a way for you to settle the bill. We'll sit over there in the corner. No, not to this misery, damn it!" Sunny gets up and sits down at a table in the far corner. She takes off her dusty boots, lets them slam noisily on the wooden floorboards, and puts her feet on the seat of another chair. Her rifle leans against the wall as Cheyenne spins around five times before curling up under the table. Sunny Smiles makes noises and her feet make smells that finally convince me I've cheated death. I gather the contents of my bags and follow her to the table. I also try to make myself comfortable, but fail because the back of the chair is too short and presses uncomfortably into my back. So I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table. As the saloon begins to spin again, I rest my forehead in my palms and try not to throw up. I can feel Sunny watching me, but she doesn't ask her questions. She doesn't seem like the most tactful person to me, so I don't attribute her silence to pure consideration. A few moments later I startle when a plate is placed in front of me. Clattering, somewhere between uncharitable and reproachful. When I open my eyes, I see a plate with four skewered iguanas in front of me. Fried, one is in civilized circles after all. I immediately start eating and feel my spirits returning. Sometimes you don't realize how much you need something until you get it. Or so. After my first iguana, Sunny tries to make conversation, "I'll go hunting again later, after the noon sun. Help me out and we'll call it even. Besides, I want some answers." "Fine!" I mumble with my mouth full and look up briefly. When I get to my third iguana Sunny can't take it anymore and starts asking, "So?" "Eeh, tastes okay, wanna say: good. Thanks!" "That wasn't my question!" the huntress counters. "I know it tastes awful. I'm not the cook, so you don't have to fool me either. I want to know what you're doing here!" I lay my cards on the table, "I thought you might know more about that. I know I was shot in the head. I don't know by whom. I don't know why. I assume I'm a courier. But these are fragments. Don't get me wrong, I know roughly where I am, that I can't get to the next town without a gun, and that I shouldn't ask a radscorpion for directions on the way. But everything concerning me? Who I am ? I can't tell you, I...I don't even know my name." "I can think of quite a few reasons why anyone would want to kill a courier!" Trudy stands next to me and places two bottles of Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles on the table. The regional competitor brand to Nuka Cola also made it through the apocalypse. Along with the myth that a fantastic prize awaits the person who collects enough caps with a hidden blue star on the bottom. Trudy corrects herself: "No offense, but you couriers are always carrying spicy luggage. There's no need for a raider to spend a lot of time discussing his heist, is there?" "Naah!" Sunny leans back thoughtfully, plucking iguana scraps from between his teeth. "After a raider attack, even Doc Mitchell couldn't have done anything for him. Treating a head shot is a bitch, but reattaching a head? I don't know. Victor also pulled him out of a pit, I heard. Headshot, pit... That sounds too planned and too clean for a raider." "Victor making himself useful for once sounds too clean and planned, too, by the way. After all, I heard he was working for Mr. House, and if he's actually taking care of someone..." mumbles Trudy to herself thoughtfully. "Oh, don't get me started on Mr. House," Sunny interrupts her, promoting a stubborn eyelid from between her teeth with a triumphant look. "Whatever they say about him is made up. No matter who's in charge on the strip, it's never, ever that mysterious scumbag. Let's stick to the facts. You had those weirdos at the bar the other night, right? The fuckers that got your radio on the line?" Trudy seems reluctant to remember. "Hmph, it was those Great Khans. Actually, also just raiders but of the rudimentary rational variety. The kind that gets hired and jobs done. And they had that greasy snob with them, the one with the plaid suit - clearly not one of them." While Trudy and Sunny lose themselves in rumors, descriptions of people and conjecture, my tinnitus sets in. Fed by chatter, headache and exhaustion, it swells to an unbearably loud sound, sets my skull vibrating and I begin to fear for the statics of my head. At the latest, it must burst and spread my unanswered questions all over the room. I focus on the door of the saloon and realize the new visitor only when standing right in front of our table. "I'm talking to you, freaks! The only one who seems to notice me is that lobotomized moron who just stares at me! Close your mouths or I'll shove something inside it!" Our new interlocutor sets up between Sunny and Trudy, who is still standing. He is wearing a blue convict uniform with a security guard's vest over it. As fear of something old spreads through Trudy and Sunny's gazes, I squint at Sunny's rifle on the wall. Too far away to take advantage of a moment of surprise. "Forget it, Lobo!" he admonishes me, placing his hand on the grip of his holstered .357 Magnum. "Your brain would reach that rifle before your hand. But if I were here for that sort of thing, we wouldn't be having this conversation already. I want Ringo!". I gradually come to terms with not grasping the context around me and choose the role of observer. Trudy composes herself and decides to answer. Her posture remains resolute, but the tremor in her voice is like an exposing antithesis: "For the last time Joe, we don't know Ringo, we don't know where he is or what you want!" I can see his patience snap for a split second in Joe's eyes before the next moment he rams his knee into Trudy's stomach and takes advantage of the slump in her torso to bang her head on our tabletop. One of the Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles tips over, pouring its foamy contents over the scene as it rolls off the table. Cheyenne, startled by the noise and the shattering bottle, flinches and retreats, panting. Sunny jumps up as well and takes a step back. "I AM. TIRED. OF YOUR SHIT!" Joe leans down to Trudy, who he still holds by the hair and pushes onto the table. On it, lemonade, Trudy's blood, and Joe's spit mix into an irritating primordial soup of violence. "Your pathetic village is tiny, everyone knows and fucks everyone here and I saw him escape us and flee in your direction. You can't fuck with me, you hear me?" "I don't think she can hear you," I enlighten him. "Her right ear is on the tabletop and her left ear is being slobbered on by a degenerate piece of shit. That's not going to get her the information she needs, which she just apparently claimed she didn't have, not for the first time!" I'm still sitting at the table, in front of my four gnawed iguana skewers, feeling every muscle and sinew tighten inside me as I risk gambling away my newfound life. Sometimes you don't realize how much you need something until you throw it into the pot. Or so. Joe barely noticeably lets go of Trudy, whereupon she instantly breaks free and escapes behind her counter. "What are you saying, you little smartass?" he asks, holding his revolver in front of my face and cocking the hammer. "Who are you, anyway?" "I haven't the faintest idea, but headshots don't seem to work against me." Joe's irritation lasts exactly two seconds. The same amount of time it takes Trudy to pull her sawed-off shotgun out from under the counter, cock the hammers, and to point the barrels at Joe. "Get lost, Cobb!" she hisses from between her teeth, letting a thin spray of red spurt from her mouth. Joe Cobb slowly raises the barrel to the ceiling and relaxes the hammer. He tucks the .357 into its holster and takes four steps backward until he has everyone in view, hands outstretched at chest level. The gesture of a man surrendering but too proud to actually put his hands above his head. "Okay. Okay please, you want it that way, you'll get it that way. Today you have gone too far!". He turns around and quickly leaves Trudy Saloon. On the back of his vest I read the letters NCR CF. "Shit!" Sunny slumps back in her chair, only to immediately jump back up and run to Trudy behind the counter. "Shit Trudy, are you okay?" Trudy is still holding the shotgun pointed at the door with shaking hands until Sunny takes the gun from her and flips it open. Two empty chambers yawn at her. "Shit Trudy!" She puts the unloaded gun on the counter and takes Trudy in her arms. That's enough to bring Trudy back and throw her back into her tough shell. "It's okay, Sunny, it's okay," she wails, not quite as purposefully freeing herself from Sunny's arms as from Joe Cobb's hand. "Wasn't the first time, wasn't the last. See that you get out of here you two!" She downs a generous glass of liquor and immediately fills up the second. I stand up and approach the counter. The remains of the broken bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla crack under my feet. "Are you sure...", I hear Sunny ask cautiously. "Get out now, I say!" it escapes Trudy, and a thick drop of blood trickles from her nose and drips onto the counter. We make our way out. Sunny, Cheyenne and me. Behind us, Trudy holds her stomach and downs her second glass. Shards, nausea and a dirty counter. [link] [comments] |
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