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Well, I'm taking this outta the old archives, I'm currently not working on this so please, don't tell me to quickly continue this fic.
War
War never changes
Troy, Gettysburg, Verdun, Iwo Jima, Taipei
Hundreds, thousands of lives lost, but lessons only briefly learned and cast aside like so many mangled corpses in battle
The Third World War was no different
It is said that the whole Earth glowed like the sun for an interminable fifty-four minutes and twenty-two seconds
In that time, billions paid the ultimate sacrifice
Yet, war never changes
Even with the defeat of the Master by the Vault Dweller, the Brotherhood of Steel continues it’s holy crusade against mutants in the East
Their great sacrifice allowed the chance for the collective body known as the New California Republic to form, a dream by a leader of a small establishment called Shady Sands, one of the many who were inspired by the actions of the Vault Dweller
A generation after, the Republic faces it’s greatest danger yet
War
War not from marauding raiders or aggressive mutants, but from within
One man will be caught in the middle
The man known as Nate
Everyone’s heard of the Vault Dweller. How he went around saving and foiling die-uh-lobical schemes. Children are named after him, each town has its own story to tell on how smart he was or how he freed them from raiders, or gangsters, or something. I heard my share of tales, but the funny thing is, I never thought I could be like that. To me, the Vault Dweller was the closest thing to God I have ever known. Now, people are saying that I’m really like him and how my selfless sac-ruh-fice is a great thing. I never thought I’d done anything big. I mean, I didn’t live in a vault, didn’t save anyone’s life, didn’t get a water chip. I guess you can decide if I’m a hero after letting me have a say.
Lets see. The best place to start is around September 17th. No the 18th is better. You have to understand, that was when the trade slump was the worst. The whole slump itself started because of some grain surplus or something, I’m no econonomologist. The city I was in, the Hub, was worst hit. If you haven’t been to the Hub it is a city built on trade. Big caravan corporations like Frontier Exchange, Fargo Traders Inc., and O’Hara Freight compete with other big companies and small companies on what goods to take where to sell to who. Add labor unions like the Yosemite Coalition of Unionized Laborers, then the whole thing is very complicated. Anyways, what I mean by ‘worst hit’, I mean people living on the streets fighting for scraps from rats. People who take food out of garbage and barrels, and after looting them of supplies setting them aflame for warmth. Hundreds crowding around a caravan office asking for work. That was like how it was for me. The last part anyway.
On September 18th around 2:30 A.M. I was sitting in Sutter’s Still. It’s a local bar, not one of my usual dives. The bar was pretty full. You could tell most of them were also here for a job, they tried not to get soused and just talked or smoked. The whole bar was too damn warm, everyone had a nice layer of sweat on them. I sat at the bar, with a mug of ale, a creaking ceiling fan lazily spun above me. An old jazz song, I think an old Fats Domino song was playing on the record. I was here, because Wasteland Caravans was going to have a caravan arrive at around 3:00 A.M. The boss, Isaac, announced that jobs would be given when the last caravan arrived, with what I could recall was a shipment of mining equipment. Nothing really happened in the bar, most were staying just for some shelter. I stepped out of the bar, and as I remember it took out my Digetal clock from my backpack. It was a pretty sturdy and new pre-war model that my brother gave me, easily fitting into both palms of my hand. The clock said 2:45, it was really more around 2:42. The clock was always off by two minutes, and I didn’t know how to set it. Anyway, I put my clock back and walked toward Wasteland Caravans. It was a short trip through the bar’s back alley and going about a block up on Edsel Street. By the time I got their a huge group was already there. Mostly humans, but some mutants and ghouls too. They were fools, Isaac never hires mutants, I thought. All were pretty well armed: pistols, rifles, machine guns knives, shotguns, I even saw a guy with a laser pistol. Isaac came out in about ten minutes, armed with a sawed off.
“GET THE HELL BACK ALL OF YOU, AND SHUT UP!” Isaac shot in the air, and the crowd silented and seemed to move back a few steps.
After a few minutes, with some yelling from the crowd Isaac made his decision.
“Freak with the laser rifle, zombie with the combat armor. I also want you in front, you with the sombrero, you with the laser, and finally the freak with that crap on your head.”
I was a bit surprised. 3 mutants, I thought? I couldn’t hardly believe it. Of course, now it is usual to see muties working next to smoothies. A riot began. I pulled out my pistol, a 10mm. Before I knew it, I was knocked down and being trampled upon. I didn’t know who was fighting who, maybe the mutants and the humans, maybe a random brawl, but I knew who broke it up. Hub cops came and began using sticks and rubber bullets to get everyone calm. When the crowd thinned up around me I stood up, and stumbled away. I felt angry. I thought, damn the mutants, all their damn fault for existing. Taking up the jobs that people need, buncha hulks should head back to the damn east where they belong. I was damn sick of the Hub, sick of the stupid slump, and damn sick of no work. I could have joined up as a temp cop, they have good pay with only a weekend training program. I think my excuse was that it was too dangerous. It was time to go to my Brother, old Eli.
War
War never changes
Troy, Gettysburg, Verdun, Iwo Jima, Taipei
Hundreds, thousands of lives lost, but lessons only briefly learned and cast aside like so many mangled corpses in battle
The Third World War was no different
It is said that the whole Earth glowed like the sun for an interminable fifty-four minutes and twenty-two seconds
In that time, billions paid the ultimate sacrifice
Yet, war never changes
Even with the defeat of the Master by the Vault Dweller, the Brotherhood of Steel continues it’s holy crusade against mutants in the East
Their great sacrifice allowed the chance for the collective body known as the New California Republic to form, a dream by a leader of a small establishment called Shady Sands, one of the many who were inspired by the actions of the Vault Dweller
A generation after, the Republic faces it’s greatest danger yet
War
War not from marauding raiders or aggressive mutants, but from within
One man will be caught in the middle
The man known as Nate
Everyone’s heard of the Vault Dweller. How he went around saving and foiling die-uh-lobical schemes. Children are named after him, each town has its own story to tell on how smart he was or how he freed them from raiders, or gangsters, or something. I heard my share of tales, but the funny thing is, I never thought I could be like that. To me, the Vault Dweller was the closest thing to God I have ever known. Now, people are saying that I’m really like him and how my selfless sac-ruh-fice is a great thing. I never thought I’d done anything big. I mean, I didn’t live in a vault, didn’t save anyone’s life, didn’t get a water chip. I guess you can decide if I’m a hero after letting me have a say.
Lets see. The best place to start is around September 17th. No the 18th is better. You have to understand, that was when the trade slump was the worst. The whole slump itself started because of some grain surplus or something, I’m no econonomologist. The city I was in, the Hub, was worst hit. If you haven’t been to the Hub it is a city built on trade. Big caravan corporations like Frontier Exchange, Fargo Traders Inc., and O’Hara Freight compete with other big companies and small companies on what goods to take where to sell to who. Add labor unions like the Yosemite Coalition of Unionized Laborers, then the whole thing is very complicated. Anyways, what I mean by ‘worst hit’, I mean people living on the streets fighting for scraps from rats. People who take food out of garbage and barrels, and after looting them of supplies setting them aflame for warmth. Hundreds crowding around a caravan office asking for work. That was like how it was for me. The last part anyway.
On September 18th around 2:30 A.M. I was sitting in Sutter’s Still. It’s a local bar, not one of my usual dives. The bar was pretty full. You could tell most of them were also here for a job, they tried not to get soused and just talked or smoked. The whole bar was too damn warm, everyone had a nice layer of sweat on them. I sat at the bar, with a mug of ale, a creaking ceiling fan lazily spun above me. An old jazz song, I think an old Fats Domino song was playing on the record. I was here, because Wasteland Caravans was going to have a caravan arrive at around 3:00 A.M. The boss, Isaac, announced that jobs would be given when the last caravan arrived, with what I could recall was a shipment of mining equipment. Nothing really happened in the bar, most were staying just for some shelter. I stepped out of the bar, and as I remember it took out my Digetal clock from my backpack. It was a pretty sturdy and new pre-war model that my brother gave me, easily fitting into both palms of my hand. The clock said 2:45, it was really more around 2:42. The clock was always off by two minutes, and I didn’t know how to set it. Anyway, I put my clock back and walked toward Wasteland Caravans. It was a short trip through the bar’s back alley and going about a block up on Edsel Street. By the time I got their a huge group was already there. Mostly humans, but some mutants and ghouls too. They were fools, Isaac never hires mutants, I thought. All were pretty well armed: pistols, rifles, machine guns knives, shotguns, I even saw a guy with a laser pistol. Isaac came out in about ten minutes, armed with a sawed off.
“GET THE HELL BACK ALL OF YOU, AND SHUT UP!” Isaac shot in the air, and the crowd silented and seemed to move back a few steps.
After a few minutes, with some yelling from the crowd Isaac made his decision.
“Freak with the laser rifle, zombie with the combat armor. I also want you in front, you with the sombrero, you with the laser, and finally the freak with that crap on your head.”
I was a bit surprised. 3 mutants, I thought? I couldn’t hardly believe it. Of course, now it is usual to see muties working next to smoothies. A riot began. I pulled out my pistol, a 10mm. Before I knew it, I was knocked down and being trampled upon. I didn’t know who was fighting who, maybe the mutants and the humans, maybe a random brawl, but I knew who broke it up. Hub cops came and began using sticks and rubber bullets to get everyone calm. When the crowd thinned up around me I stood up, and stumbled away. I felt angry. I thought, damn the mutants, all their damn fault for existing. Taking up the jobs that people need, buncha hulks should head back to the damn east where they belong. I was damn sick of the Hub, sick of the stupid slump, and damn sick of no work. I could have joined up as a temp cop, they have good pay with only a weekend training program. I think my excuse was that it was too dangerous. It was time to go to my Brother, old Eli.
