RommelTJ
First time out of the vault
So, here is my entry to the contest. Please tell me what you thought about it. It was supposed to be a inspired by pulp-western comedy, just like Fallout.
Without further ado, here it is:
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LOST HILLS
by Rommel Rico.
The Brotherhood of Steel base at Lost Hills stood out from the landscape of Southern California. Lost Hills, then, was always a place of great intrigue among travelers. It stood alone on the desert, and when the sun was hot enough the base was not visible. Jeremy Maxson, the leader of the Brotherhood, lived here with the ruling council and the highest ranked members of the organization.
One morning, when an ancient Highwayman ran out of Micro Fusion Cells, Maxson performed the marvel of catching three men. One was a shaky and quick-eyed Blond Man, with a shining cheap suitcase; one was a tall bronzed Cowboy, who was on his way to Junktown; one was a silent Black man from Vault City. Maxson practically made them prisoners. He offered them assistance if only they would come with him. The three had to accept.
Maxson conducted them through the portals of Lost Hills. The room which they entered seemed to be merely a proper temple for an enormous suit, which, in the center, was humming with violence. Above it was a sign – “Broken. Please repair.” Beside the suit Maxson's son Michael was shuffling Tragic Cards. Maxson handed the foreigners some towels and they proceeded to clean their faces.
Michael opened with some small talk. Usually he was answered in short but adequate sentences by either the Cowboy or the Black Man. The Blond Man said nothing.
Later, at dinner, he spoke a little. He volunteered that he had come from D.C., where for ten years he had worked as a railroad operator at Union Station. These facts seemed to strike Maxson as fascinating. The Blond Man asked about the price of farm labor in the Hub. He seemed barely to listen to Maxson's extended replies. His eyes roved from man to man.
When they finished eating, Michael broke open his pack of Tragic Cards and insisted that everybody play. They formed a square with a little board on their knees. As the game went on, the Blond Man was feeling uncomfortable. All of a sudden, Maxson entered the room. Besides scattering the cards, it chilled the players to the marrow. The Blond Man cursed frightfully. "You are cheatin'!"
The little room was now hideous. The Blond Man held a huge fist in front of Michael's face, while the latter looked steadily over it into the blazing orbs of his accuser. The Black man had grown pallid; the Cowboy’s jaw dropped. After a second, the five men projected themselves toward the same point. The Black man and Maxson clung wildly at Michael, and the Cowboy jostled with the Blond man.
Maxson's voice was dominating the yells. "Stop now! Stop, I say! Stop, now-"
Michael cried: "Well, he says I cheated! He says I cheated! I won't allow no man to say I cheated!"
The screams of the Blond Man never ceased. "He did cheat! I saw him! I saw him-"
As for the Black man, he was importuning in a voice that was not heeded. "Wait a moment, can't you? What's the good of a fight over a game of Tragic?"
Then suddenly there was a great cessation. Michael used this opportunity to confront the Blond Man. "What did you say I cheated for? I don't cheat and I won't let no man say I do!"
The Blond said: "I saw you! I saw you!"
"Well," cried Michael, "I'll fight any man what says I cheat!"
"No, you won't," said the Cowboy. "Not here."
"Ah, be still, can't you?" said Maxson, coming between them.
The quiet was sufficient to allow the Black man’s voice to be heard. "Oh, wait a moment, can't you? What's the good of a fight over a game of cards?"
Michael, his red face appearing above his father's shoulder, hailed the Blond again. "Did you say I cheated?"
"Yes."
"Then," said Michael, "we must fight."
A change had come over the High Elder. He now seemed all eagerness; his eyes glowed. "We'll let them fight," he answered. "I can't put up with it any longer.”
The two combatants leaped forward and crashed together like bullocks. There was heard the cushioned sound of blows, and of a curse squeezing out from between the tight teeth of one.
For a time the encounter in the darkness was such a perplexity of flying arms that it presented no more detail than would a swiftly-revolving wheel. Then there was a sudden loud grunt, incomplete, cut short, and Michael's body swung away from the Blond man and fell with sickening heaviness to the concrete floor.
Maxson was at his son's side. "Michael! Michael, me boy?" His voice had a quality of melancholy tenderness. "Michael? Can you go on with it?" He looked anxiously down into the bloody pulpy face of his son.
The son gasped and opened his eyes languidly. After a moment he answered: "No- I ain't- any good- any- more." Then, from shame and bodily ill, he began to weep, the tears furrowing down through the bloodstains on his face.
Maxson straightened and addressed the waiting figure. "Stranger," he said, evenly, "it's all up with our side." Then his voice changed into that vibrant huskiness which is commonly the tone of the most simple and deadly announcements. "Michael is whipped."
Without replying, the victor moved off on the route to the front door of the base.
The Blond Man stood outside of the base. No one looked at him. "Well," he cried, "I s'pose you'll kill me now?"
The old man remained stolid. "You don't owe me or my son nothin'.” Maxson pulled out some fuel cells from a locker. “Here you go.”
"Mr. Maxson," called the Blond Man, "it was a pleasure to meet ya." It was seen that he was attired for departure, and that he had his suitcase in his hand.
"Before you leave," interrupted Maxson, "could you tell me what is in your suitcase?"
"Huh!" said the Blond Man. "I guess so. I have detailed prints of locomotive designs that I was going to sell at the Hub. You can have them."
The Blond Man opened the door and passed into the desert, giving one derisive glance backward at the still group.
Months later, the Scribes at the Brotherhood were still intrigued at the locomotive prints. They argued that if they could have access to rail, they could finally expand their operations across the whole country while having direct access to major cities and technologies.
With an air of uncertainty, Maxson decided to send a group of three Paladins and one Scribe to Washington, D.C. to gather and recollect any information related to Railway lines.
And so, four brave souls wondered east and founded New Lost Hills. Two days later, they find a man running from a Super mutant; the same type of Super Mutant that threatened their very existence nearly 70 years ago.
Fallout 3 begins…
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Without further ado, here it is:
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
LOST HILLS
by Rommel Rico.
The Brotherhood of Steel base at Lost Hills stood out from the landscape of Southern California. Lost Hills, then, was always a place of great intrigue among travelers. It stood alone on the desert, and when the sun was hot enough the base was not visible. Jeremy Maxson, the leader of the Brotherhood, lived here with the ruling council and the highest ranked members of the organization.
One morning, when an ancient Highwayman ran out of Micro Fusion Cells, Maxson performed the marvel of catching three men. One was a shaky and quick-eyed Blond Man, with a shining cheap suitcase; one was a tall bronzed Cowboy, who was on his way to Junktown; one was a silent Black man from Vault City. Maxson practically made them prisoners. He offered them assistance if only they would come with him. The three had to accept.
Maxson conducted them through the portals of Lost Hills. The room which they entered seemed to be merely a proper temple for an enormous suit, which, in the center, was humming with violence. Above it was a sign – “Broken. Please repair.” Beside the suit Maxson's son Michael was shuffling Tragic Cards. Maxson handed the foreigners some towels and they proceeded to clean their faces.
Michael opened with some small talk. Usually he was answered in short but adequate sentences by either the Cowboy or the Black Man. The Blond Man said nothing.
Later, at dinner, he spoke a little. He volunteered that he had come from D.C., where for ten years he had worked as a railroad operator at Union Station. These facts seemed to strike Maxson as fascinating. The Blond Man asked about the price of farm labor in the Hub. He seemed barely to listen to Maxson's extended replies. His eyes roved from man to man.
When they finished eating, Michael broke open his pack of Tragic Cards and insisted that everybody play. They formed a square with a little board on their knees. As the game went on, the Blond Man was feeling uncomfortable. All of a sudden, Maxson entered the room. Besides scattering the cards, it chilled the players to the marrow. The Blond Man cursed frightfully. "You are cheatin'!"
The little room was now hideous. The Blond Man held a huge fist in front of Michael's face, while the latter looked steadily over it into the blazing orbs of his accuser. The Black man had grown pallid; the Cowboy’s jaw dropped. After a second, the five men projected themselves toward the same point. The Black man and Maxson clung wildly at Michael, and the Cowboy jostled with the Blond man.
Maxson's voice was dominating the yells. "Stop now! Stop, I say! Stop, now-"
Michael cried: "Well, he says I cheated! He says I cheated! I won't allow no man to say I cheated!"
The screams of the Blond Man never ceased. "He did cheat! I saw him! I saw him-"
As for the Black man, he was importuning in a voice that was not heeded. "Wait a moment, can't you? What's the good of a fight over a game of Tragic?"
Then suddenly there was a great cessation. Michael used this opportunity to confront the Blond Man. "What did you say I cheated for? I don't cheat and I won't let no man say I do!"
The Blond said: "I saw you! I saw you!"
"Well," cried Michael, "I'll fight any man what says I cheat!"
"No, you won't," said the Cowboy. "Not here."
"Ah, be still, can't you?" said Maxson, coming between them.
The quiet was sufficient to allow the Black man’s voice to be heard. "Oh, wait a moment, can't you? What's the good of a fight over a game of cards?"
Michael, his red face appearing above his father's shoulder, hailed the Blond again. "Did you say I cheated?"
"Yes."
"Then," said Michael, "we must fight."
A change had come over the High Elder. He now seemed all eagerness; his eyes glowed. "We'll let them fight," he answered. "I can't put up with it any longer.”
The two combatants leaped forward and crashed together like bullocks. There was heard the cushioned sound of blows, and of a curse squeezing out from between the tight teeth of one.
For a time the encounter in the darkness was such a perplexity of flying arms that it presented no more detail than would a swiftly-revolving wheel. Then there was a sudden loud grunt, incomplete, cut short, and Michael's body swung away from the Blond man and fell with sickening heaviness to the concrete floor.
Maxson was at his son's side. "Michael! Michael, me boy?" His voice had a quality of melancholy tenderness. "Michael? Can you go on with it?" He looked anxiously down into the bloody pulpy face of his son.
The son gasped and opened his eyes languidly. After a moment he answered: "No- I ain't- any good- any- more." Then, from shame and bodily ill, he began to weep, the tears furrowing down through the bloodstains on his face.
Maxson straightened and addressed the waiting figure. "Stranger," he said, evenly, "it's all up with our side." Then his voice changed into that vibrant huskiness which is commonly the tone of the most simple and deadly announcements. "Michael is whipped."
Without replying, the victor moved off on the route to the front door of the base.
The Blond Man stood outside of the base. No one looked at him. "Well," he cried, "I s'pose you'll kill me now?"
The old man remained stolid. "You don't owe me or my son nothin'.” Maxson pulled out some fuel cells from a locker. “Here you go.”
"Mr. Maxson," called the Blond Man, "it was a pleasure to meet ya." It was seen that he was attired for departure, and that he had his suitcase in his hand.
"Before you leave," interrupted Maxson, "could you tell me what is in your suitcase?"
"Huh!" said the Blond Man. "I guess so. I have detailed prints of locomotive designs that I was going to sell at the Hub. You can have them."
The Blond Man opened the door and passed into the desert, giving one derisive glance backward at the still group.
Months later, the Scribes at the Brotherhood were still intrigued at the locomotive prints. They argued that if they could have access to rail, they could finally expand their operations across the whole country while having direct access to major cities and technologies.
With an air of uncertainty, Maxson decided to send a group of three Paladins and one Scribe to Washington, D.C. to gather and recollect any information related to Railway lines.
And so, four brave souls wondered east and founded New Lost Hills. Two days later, they find a man running from a Super mutant; the same type of Super Mutant that threatened their very existence nearly 70 years ago.
Fallout 3 begins…
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