Fallout: Fail-Safe

274 years. 274 long, hard, miserable years since the disaster that return Earth to its stone age splendor. After the last nuke detonated, after the fires died, the storms stopped, the sun broke through the clouds of noxious vapor and finally kissed the war-worn crust of the demolished planet, ash and rubble was all that was left for the citizens of North Carolina. They hardly recognized their beautiful ocean-side state.

Slowly, they scratched out a living. Famine, plague, more war, strife of every color continued with great intensity. Most serious of all--there was no clean water. Every source of water was either vaporized or irradiated, sometimes with lethal doses. The Atlantic Ocean had likewise retreated a mile from its coast, as if afraid to gaze upon the dilapidated squalor it once lovingly lapped against.

After 274 years, even the Vault Dwellers, descendants of those who were fortunate enough to gain access to Vault-Tec brand safety vaults before the nukes dropped, are starting to feel the effects. As it turns out your built-in Vault Tec Aquatic Purification and Water Protection Systems (Or VATAPWAPS) has malfunctioned; the water chip, a delicate and integral piece of the machinery has burned out, and your vault will run out of clean water in three months time.

You and a brigand of fellow Vault Dwellers were selected by the Overseer to venture off into the wastes and retrieve a working replacement. You were given a 9mm Autoloader pistol, along with 50 rounds of complimentary ammo each, along with a combat knife. In the way of supplies you have exactly one weeks worth of canned food and water. After that, it's up to you.

From here on out, it's up to you and your fellows to make it. Abandon the Vault and head off in the wastes, split up, annihilate everything that stands in your way, save a bus full of children, do anything you like. It's your life.
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VAULT DWELLERS:
The vault door closes behind you. All that was previously familiar to you has been cut off. Your eyes slowly adjust to the dim light of the Vault 654 alcove. The... Natural light. For the first time in your life, you feel the brush of the Earth's warm wind against your skin, see the flare of the sun's light in your eyes. Its a strange feeling. You take in a deep breath and step out from the shade.

The sky is lush with a tainted green color. Clouds loom ominously in the sky; it looks like it may rain soon. There isn't much in the way of scenery. You learned from history books that this area used to be covered in grass and trees; but there's none of that now. Just shattered earth and scrawny, brown weeds with enough courage to poke their pencil thin blades up through the soil. Whispy dust devils kick up and slowly die in the hot, billowing summer wind.

You are at the top of Mt. Pleasant. Mt. Pleasant is quite obviously a misnomer, it's elevation is only 650', but due to your sheltered life, this indeed seems quite perilous. You see the town of HWY 73 resting below and above what, hundreds of years ago, was an overpass.

WASTELANDERS:
It's a strange feeling, the slight brush of a cool breeze against your skin. The summer was so long that you had forgotten what winter was like. How strange it was for that irradiated, acidic rain to pour from the sky. But now, black Nimbus clouds gather to the east, slowly rolling in. It will be quite a torrent, poisoning crops, washing out the land, distressing most material left outside. Only thing that seemed to not mind the rain were the Brahmin, who lapped up its filth with glee. It's probably their four extra stomachs.

HWY73 had been very quiet today. It wasn't too assuring. Not after the raid last week. There wasn't a doubt in your mind that the raiders would be running out of food and water by now, and would soon be making their way back over to your town to raise hell and steal everything not bolted down. Little Timmy had his other leg blown off, if this shit kept up much longer he'd be a bean.

HWY73 is a relatively medium sized city, by the Wasteland's standards. A collection of tents and huts are strewn willing-nilly above and below the crushed overpass. There are give or take around 100 citizens, each contributing a small part to their city. Kids splash in puddles of irradiated water and play all day. Brahmin wander through the streets. The smell of cooking meat and motor oil hangs in the air. It's a common target of raiders and super mutant attacks, but the people make-do. A large chain link fence encircles the town, topped with barbed wire. There is a pair of elevators that takes passengers up to the top of the overpass; a safe haven 16 feet above the ground, often used as a fortress again attackers. Unfortunately the elevators were broken during the last raid.

Important landmarks include Shepard's hut, the Armory, the Rusty Spoon Cafe, and Doc Banter's. There's also a line of junk stores throughout the town.

"No you fucking won't, God dammit!" Trevlac roared at a merchant, spittle flying into the pompous man's greedy little face. He knocked his jar of caps over and it went flying. The merchant was angry, but too afraid now to go for his weapon. Trevlac absentmindedly looked out in the east toward the entrance to HWY73 and sighed internally.

A Brahman wailed impatiently as the two fought. The merchant finally got up the courage to speak, "Wastelander, what would you have me do? Helen made a deal with me. Either she paid her 250 cap debt by today or I take her as an indentured servant for two years." He played with the tassel on his cloak and paid his spilled caps no mind. They were in the open field away from anyone else, so the merchant could restrain his urge to hastily recover his caps.

"That is bullshit mother fucker. You know it. You sick piece of shit. 'Indentured Servant' my aching ass, you're going to keep her as a slave. Make her fuck up and have to pay you even more time. On my life I'm not letting you see this devil deal through. Helen is a good person." Trevlac's finger was pressed hard against the merchant's chest in an attempt to intimidate him. The merch had dealt with Trevlac's kind before, but they were in the open and he knew he'd be safe from death if people were looking on.

"Wastelander, she owes me a debt. What kind of justice would it be to let people walk away from their debtors scott-free?" He maintained his composure. Trevlac smirked and cocked an eyebrow, "I never said I was gonna deprive you of what's rightfully yours, slimeball. You'll have your caps, but that's what you'll have: caps. Not her life, not her sevices, nothing but what she actually, tangibly owes you. Now, I may not have the, " Trevlac paused and gave a toothy grin, "composure, to talk to a man such as yourself. But my machete here has a few words to say about fairness and equality.It says 250 caps is equal to 250 caps."

Rain drops splashed into the merchant's face, causing him to flinch. For a moment, Trevlac thought he had convinced the man, but then the merchant called "Enough of this, kill this guy."

A smatter of raspy laughter come from behind the merchant's cart. "I was hoping you'd start some shit, little man!" a rather large buffoon with few teeth and wearing what appeared to be a leather vest covered in human teeth hissed, stepping out wielding a crudely made spear. A midget with a plasma pistol and a floppy green mohawk crawled out from under the cart, smudged with grime, grunting stupidly.

The merchant grinned sarcastically and stepped back, holding his hands up as if he had done nothing wrong. "Help! Help! This man is trying to mug me!" he screamed, waving and making a scene.

Combat initiated!
The man with the spear lunged at Trevlac, his spear piercing the air to the side of Trevlac's head!
The midget began overpowering his plasma pistol...

The air by Trevlac's head rushed past his eye, drying it out. A tear streaked down his face as his body fought blurred vision. Adrenaline began pumping through his veins, and that hot metal taste pulsated on the roof of Trevlac's mouth. He fucking bolted. Coward is a bullshit word, you either live or die, or live really really injured. The coated man charged down a midrange boulder that could hide his bulk and ducked behind it. There were rocks beside him. He waited for a while...they could be tricked.

He took off his coat and with the rock underneath for weight, tossed it to a boulder to his right, making it look as though he was ducking for cover. I better not fucking die. This coat has to be replaced with a legend's before my time is up.

Trevlac hurled a stone concealed in his coat behind another boulder. The spearman was not fooled, however. He began slowly marching towards the rock he had seen his adversary take cover at, attempting to look formidable as possible.

The midget continued charging his plasma pistol and giggling.

Trevlac's plan had worked even more marvelously than he had expected. He briefly wondered if a scientific study of this were conducted, if a thousand retarded spearmen would make the same decision. If the spearman had simply rushed one of the two rocks, he could have easily fucked Trevlac up, however the ridiculousness of Trevlac's supposed wit must have made the merchant's goon too overconfident and he walked slowly. That let Trevlac slip ninety degrees around the massive boulder's side as he heard the footsteps come closer. Then he quickly took out his twenty-two rifle and fired at the spearman around the side of the boulder he came from.

Trevlac's aim was true: the .22 round struck the Spearman in the arm for 3 damage. The man roared and spun in his attacker's direction, holding his arm. With a roar he sprinted towards the rifleman and thrust his spear wildly.

The spear struck the boulder with a clang. A few sparked rocketed off the end of the blade.

The Midget released the trigger of his plasma pistol. There was a momentary pause. Everything seemed to move slowly. The pistol exploded violently, reducing the height-challeneged man to a pile of steaming green goo.

Trevlac cursed under his breath as a spear almost gutted him. At least the midget was out of the way. But now he was staring down an enraged faggot with a spear. Today is just not my day. Goddam.

With a momentary flick of the eyes, Trevlac steadied his rifle, concentrated his mind with that sharp-shootin' sniper training he had and let it rip at fuckin' point blank on this bastard. After he pulled the trigger, he didn't even bother thinking or looking at what happened, Trevlac dove for cover behind the boulder once more And then dove behind the spearman behind the second boulder where his coat was.

Trevlac's .22 round pierced the eye of his spear-wielding adversary, blood spewed forth. The bullet bounced around inside his skull, turning his brain into swiss-cheese, before exiting the other eyeball. The man collapse, blood oozing out of every orifice.

The merchant screamed like a girl and began digging through his caravan for something to defend himself with.

The Assassin's shot...god damn, I never thought I would pull that off. Trevlac had chanced a look over the boulder when he heard squelching sounds and the unmistakable thump of a dead weight body crunch against the gravel. Success. Now.

He was a blur. Trevlac absolutely shagged-ass from the boulders back to the merchant and stopped behind him. He pulled out his machete and placed it against the merchant's neck, not bothering to be gentle. "You know. The only reason I even kept this weak little pea-shooter was to pull off that perfect shot one day? Well I did it. And you know something, bub, it feels really good. Right now, there are endorphins and many many milliliters of adrenaline pumping through my body. I feel good enough to kill you." Trevlac licked his lips as the clouds began to send thick drops of rain more frequently.

He continued, "But you know what? My machete here says fair's fair. They tried to kill me, and you'd have robbed me. So I killed them, and now what do you think I should do to you?" Trevlac absentmindedly looked at the caps on the ground. Guy had plenty to go on. "You know, I reckon there's over 250 caps here. What if I took 'em and then paid Helen's debt for her? My machete seems to think fair's fair. Any takers?" Trevlac spit some irradiated rainwater onto the back of the merchant's neck and he shuddered.

"Oh-Okay, fine--whatever, do what you want," the merchant whimpered, holding his hands a little higher into the air "just, please, please, don't kill me!"

The man slipped onto his knees, still shaking and whimpering. The rain began to come down even harder, thick gray droplets; spilling across the ground, soaking rocks. A couple of children gripped the nearby fence, peering through the links toward Trevlac. The distant mewl of a Brahmin echoed through HWY73.

Trevlac looked over at the children and grinned and winked a smile. Then he backed away from the merchant and bent down to pick up 250 caps. He gave them to the merchant. "Alright. We're square now. Helen's debt is paid. You go on now and do your business y'hear? And when you get back to my town, I'll be watching you." He added, pointing his finger and squinting one eye. The merchant's hair started to slowly get darker and wetter. Trevlac him self grinned and whipped out a leather bandanna, applied it to his head, and threw on some ragged leather gloves. He patted the merch on the shoulder heartily and thumped him on the back like they were best buddies, "Aw come on man, don't be so serious! We're square, I said. Look, I guarantee your safety."

Trevlac made a passing motion with his machete as if to say 'go in peace'. In a very low and serious tone he added, "Everyone. Everyone deserves an opportunity to set themselves back to square zero. Everyone deserves a second chance." Then he dispensed with the pleasantries in the middle of the rain and fumbled the walk back to HWY73, the adrenaline rush still going full-spring, making his walk jittery and his insides churn.

The merchant sheepishly took the jar of bottle caps from Trevlac and tucked them into his coat. Without saying a word he climbed atop his cart, struck his brahmin with a riding crop and turned it towards the town. It raddled and ground its way through the mud, passing under a large highway sign announcing "HWY73 --- 15 miles", but the "15 miles" marked out with spraypaint and "YUR FOOKIN HIER" added below it.

The rain was really coming down now, rocketing off of the sloped roofs of some of the better constructed huts, forming large puddled that children were playing in, a haggard dog watching on listlessly. Most everyone was inside; rain wasn't known to be very healthy in this day and age. Indeed, most of the shops had closed until the rain quit, however long that was. All except for the Rusty Spoon Cafe and Wilbur's Armory. That stubborn mule was open even during raids, blasting raiders to pieces and selling weapons and ammo half-price. "Goons're tha mos' importan' thin' in the Wastes," he would say "even more importan' than water. Without goons, how're ya gonna git water?"

The traveling merchant pulled up to an empty lot near a leaning fortress of tents and began unloading his wares, looking mournfully up at the torrential, unforgiving sky.

Out of no-where Beavis, the town gossiper, appears next to you with his trademark stupid grin. "What the fuck happened out there, Trevvy boy? There's people saying you were beaten up that merchent cos he owed ya money, rite? Gave 'im th' ol' one-two yeah? That's the best policy, I gotta say. Hey, c'm wif me over to tha Cafe, I'll buy ya a cup o' brahmin milk n such."

"Not at all, my good man." Trevlac said to Beavis, trying disparately to hide his exasperation. The town gossip followed the town fix-it every goddam where and always had some new BS to spout. "Beavis, get this." Trevlac lowered his voice and told Beavis as though it were a juicy secret, "The merchant actually hired me for security while in town. And for a whopping two hundred and fifty caps!" Trevlac watched as the gossip's eyes widened at the thought of so much wealth.

"Whatch'ee gon' do wit it?" Beavis asked quietly. Trevlac shook his head, "I paid off Helen's debt. But don't tell her." Of course Beavis would fucking tell her. You'd have to be a moron (and he was) to let that slip by. The merchant seem to have a solid stock and reputation with the people around them. Trevlac just hoped no one made a shit since he did actually agree to protect the man. I am so internally grateful that the market lots have tarps above them he thought as rain poured on the ceiling tarp. Small leaks trickled through the ragged holes, and a huge roar of thunder hammered down the slate-grey sky.

Trevlac smiled. The first true smile in a few weeks. He loved the rain. "Hey Beavis, I can take you up on that milk when I get done guarding our wonderful guest if you still want."

Beavis' smiled grew even wider with what Travlac had told him. He put his hand over his heart and swore he wouldn't say a word before marching off. After about ten strides he turned back around and shouted "hey, they want you to fix the elevators. Shepard said he'd pay for the parts."

Lightning crashed across the sky and the rain began to grow heavier. The sky was black with clouds. The merchant looked over at Trevlac, "get out of here, it's raining too hard and nobody wants to buy anything. If you want to come back tomorrow go for it, I'm not going anywhere," and with that he climbed into his cart-cum-house and shut the curtain.

"Fucking sigh." Trevlac said, rolling his eyes. He clodded around a few tents in the mud and drenching rain before he finally reached his tent. You always knew what tent was Trevlac's in HWY73 because it was a big tent made of black Brahman-hide with rusted iron doohickeys and thingamabobs jutting out of it on all four corners. Trevlac was essentially marking himself as an engineer by doing so and it made him feel good when he looked upon it. Like he had a purpose, like he was needed, wanted.

As he stepped inside his tent onto the dry ground below, he pulled off the tattered boots he wore and slipped on his good combat work boots. Bandanna was still tight, belt still holding pants up, ass still attached to legs. Okay, good to go. He made a sweep of his workbench and grabbed various tools, fitting them inside a banged-up toolbox. Then some custom electrical equipment and a single circuit board. Just to be sure, Trevlac fitted 2 rounds into his .22 rifle's magazine, reloading it. And he set off for the God damned elevator.

When he arrived, he was soaked. "Fucking elevator..." he mumbled. "Even if Beavis is lying his ass off about the pay, I'll do it just for the reputation. Been broken so long I don't think people even remember what it does."

You climb atop the elevator to begin working on the pulley system. Before you know it, you're done. Moving around to the other elevator, it appears as though the control panel was broken. A few screws and a spliced wire and it's all good. Piece of cake.

You successfully fixed the Elevators (difficulty 50), and no Charges of your Toolkit were used. You gained 50 EXP.

Just as you were finishing up and latching your toolbox closed, you hear the sound of several shots ringing through the rain. Then the unmistakable sound of screaming and the screeching tires of a dune buggy. You knew that meant one thing--Raiders.

"SON OF A FUCKING BITCH!" Trevlac bellowed as pandora erupted outside. "That god damned merchant better be okay." he cursed and booked it toward the commotion. The heavy rain beat against his bandanna, drumming a rhythmic chaos into his mind. It didn't take long for Trevlac to make it back to his tent, stow away his toolkit, retrieve his .22 Rifle and machete, then march back to the merchant's cart. He had to at least warn the guy to get the hell outta Dodge.

Sure enough, it was raiders. It was chaos. They were doing what they always do; riding around on motorcycles, firing into the air, and setting things on fire. Whooping and hollering and cheering with glee the whole time. There was about fifteen mutilated corpses laying in the mud in front of their jeep which they were loading with loot.

The traveling merchant was standing on top of his caravan firing at a group of three raiders who were strolling around it like wolves, laughing and heckling him. The carried assault rifles and wore patch-work leather armor, covered in long, intimating spikes all over their bodies.

"C'mon, ya little cunt!" howled a female raider who was heckling the merchant, "get down from there an' give us yer stuff! we don't want to kill you...." she looked at the other two she was with. They exploded into laughter. "well, okay, we DO, but we don't HAVE to, y'know!"

The merchant raised his rifle and fired, but she hopped out of the way a moment before.

Trevlac almost saw them too late. He was halfway between his tent and the merchant when he saw the scene. Aw hell. I have to get myself killed for this asshole just because of a promise. Trevlac scratched his chin, and high-tailed it back to his tent. It would be a lot more prudent to attack from a long distance. And there was a reason his tent looked exactly like his coat, bandanna, and gloves...

Pulling his hair behind his head and re-fastening the leather bandanna, Trevlac withdrew a second one from a coat pocket and wrapped it around his face, leaving only the tiniest slit for his piercing hawk eyes. Then he climbed onto the roof of his tent, supported structurally by the bookshelves inside, and laid prone. He watched the raiders closely for a moment, studied their movements. His rifle, his head, his hands, his whole body, all the same fabric and color of his tent.

This wasn't the first time he had done this. A few months ago, he had redesigned his tent when the raiders last came and took everything. This time he could fight. He used his noggin, not numbers and scare tactics. The sniper days were coming back to him. He observed the lower lighting with overcast, making the dimensional change on the tent he caused to be almost negligible. Trevlac looked around at the rest of HWY73 and smiled, because an open area could hide the location of a gunshot sound very well what with echos. This was a pragmatic approach. His scope was set, his breathing was slow and evenly paced.

At this range it would take some concentration for his sharpshooting to be effective. Trevlac waited, crosshairs on the female raider.

The female raider pulls a combat knife from her boot and slashes the cart's tires. One of her fellows slaughters the merchant's brahmin, whilst the other begins peeing on it. The merchant fires again, hitting the peeing raider in the foot and causing 9 damage. With a roar the injured raider pulls out a revolver and fires back, hitting the merchant in the chest for 12 damage and knocking him off his feet.

"Fuck this asshole!" the Raider Who Peed screamed, "let's torch his shit! We don't need it anyway!"
"No, fuck you, Buzz. We're taking his stuff."
Buzz shifted in place, looking down at his bleeding foot.
"Fine, but I wanna burn his cart when we're done."
The female raider, which appeared to be some sort of leader or respected member, motioned to the back the merchants cart. The pair of other raiders began taking stuff off and piling it next to the cart.

It was now or never. The female Raider's head finally sank back into the crosshairs and Trevlac spotted the shot. He exhaled slow, and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet exploded from the end of the barrel, soaring through the air, striking the side of the cart a foot from the raider's head. She started violently and spun around, looking for the source.

"What the fuck was that?" she screeched.
"I think someone shot at you," Buzz replied dolefully, setting a box of ammo on top a box of canned beats.
Squinting, she peered off in the direction of where she thought the bullet came from and squealed. "Hey, fuckfaces! Come with me I think we got somethin'!"
Buzz and no-name cackled, following.

Halfway between the cart and your tent, the female raider pulls out a frag grenade and hurls it toward your tent, it misses by tent feet and blows up the tent next to yours.

Jacken sat perfectly still on a cot in a stone chamber. He checked the clock, yes...about time. As if on cue, a man in dusty leather overalls limped up to the prison bars encapsulating Jacken. "Rise and shine, pretty boy." he said with an unmistakable southern twang, even though he could clearly see Jacken awake. "Today's the big day! Ass up and in gear, prisoner."

He rose slowly, and stuck his hands through the fitted slot. The jailer fitted some rusty makeshift cuffs around Jacken's wrists and opened the cell door. "Step on out, sunshine." the jailer spit. "Go on upstairs and see the warden, I'll be right behind ya."

Jacken took the stairs slowly but eventually the warden's ancient face swam into view. He produced a large wooden box full of miscellaneous shit. Jacken mouthed off, "Oh Warden, you shouldn't have. My birthday isn't until next week anyway!" But the warden ignored him. He read from a list.

"Jacken Crowfoot, inmate number #0334, sentence beginning on August 3rd, lasting 1 years and 1 months, have been granted early release without parole for good behavior. Find enclosed a list of your things." Warden's voice drawled on, "Twenty caps, one curved sword, one folding knife, one pinstripe suit, one belt, two black shoes, one black hat, one ballpoint pen, one unused condom..." His eyes suddenly opened. He had been producing each item as he read them from the list, but the last item caught his attention. The warden grimaced, and used Jacken's pen to produce the last item, "one condom, soiled."

A smile crept across his face. He waited a whole year just to see that reaction. "Thanks, Warden." he said simply. The warden asked him to sign some paperwork, then he waited for it to be cleared, stamped, and re-stamped for approval. The jailer added his signature and the cuffs were finally off. Jacken was a free man. He quickly dressed in his attirements, and marched out the front door of the jail as though he owned the place, fitting the dice cuff-links on last.

Jacken expected the unforgiving wasteland sun to beat down on his head, what he got was the unforgiving wasteland rain beating down on his head. But then, shit went down. A raider attack...

Many would think this was unlucky, but Jacken had the luck of the devil. This could only work in his favor.

Chaos ruled over HWY73, huts burned to the ground. Gunshots, chaos, people running amok. The villagers were trying the best they could to defend themselves against the well-armed raiders.

Out of thin air, a grenade, pin missing, rolls up to Jacken's feet and bounces against his boots. Waiting.