Newbie here....
I'd been playing Fallout, and actually accepted Gizmo's deal to blow Killian away (just so I could see his dogtags), and I ended up writing the aftermath of it. It's not long, at all, but it's pretty nasty. It's mostly just the Dweller's thoughts and observations.
But yeah. Read if you want, and if you don't like it, please tell me so. And for what reason, if you don't mind.
___________
You could hear dust settle in the stillness left behind. I looked over my shoulder, and caught Tycho not looking at me. He was staring pointedly on a spot on the wall, where there was probably blood spatter. His face was tight and tired looking- the oldness that now marred his features wasn't a passing illusion. The white sun light was dulled somewhat in the ramshackle building, the gaps between the wood slats letting some in.
Behind me, I heard Ian shifting around on the gritty floor, not speaking either. He wasn't just moving to keep his sore leg from cramping. I knew this.
Maybe the only one there who didn't care about what had just happened was Dogmeat.
Oh well.
For a few, horrible seconds, I remembered that sound- that goddamn sound- as Killian lay dying on the floor, in a pool of his own blood. My pistol shot had gone straight through a lung, and he went down silently, a grimace screaming across his face like the tracer of a missile. I remembered, as his guards came in, beyond the thundering of our guns and the taunts that raggedly cut through the air, the sounds that Killian made as he struggled for breath.
See, in the Vault, I learned that when someone made sounds like that, it was called a sucking chest wound.
It was a high, faint whistle, punctuated by coughs as his lungs spasmed from the blood flooding in, and as he tried to breathe, the sound of air rushing through the gunshot wound produced a sucking sound.
I almost threw up on the floor. It woudn't have mattered, all things considered- after all, Kenji's blood was still on the floor, even after we mowed him down in the process of saving Killian.
I saved him, then I killed him.
We were all quiet.
I remembered what I had promised that asshole, Gizmo. I bent, fishing underneath the ragged, rough-wove shirt Killian wore. He had been a quiet man, with frank brown eyes. Now they were moon-rimmed and glassy. His skin was still warm, the sweat making his skin sticky, and it clung slightly to my fingers if I happened to touch him. I swallowed back a gag as I touched the metal of the dog tags, warm from it's owners body heat.
I didn't rip them off. I don't know why.
It would have been disrespectful, I think.
I carefully popped the little metal balls, strung together, from their holder, and careful not to let the tags slide from the chain, slid it from around his neck. I could feel the chain dragging with the softest resitance against the skin of Killian's neck.
Standing, I heard my right knee crack. Shit. I should have let the Vault med tec take care of that before I left. Looking at Killian's right knee, I shut myself abruptly up.
I looked at the dogtags in my hand- the steel was thin and pale from age, uneven in it's width. One of the tags were bent slightly, and the only thing left stamped on the metal was a faintly visible "Darkwater". I didn't know if they were Killian's, or some ancestor of his. Probably the latter. The idea that this man had a family rocked me for a second, and I remembered ("knock on my mother-in-law's head") his wife.
I shut my eyes against the sight of the desert between the slats, and willed myself not to throw up.
I'd been playing Fallout, and actually accepted Gizmo's deal to blow Killian away (just so I could see his dogtags), and I ended up writing the aftermath of it. It's not long, at all, but it's pretty nasty. It's mostly just the Dweller's thoughts and observations.
But yeah. Read if you want, and if you don't like it, please tell me so. And for what reason, if you don't mind.
___________
You could hear dust settle in the stillness left behind. I looked over my shoulder, and caught Tycho not looking at me. He was staring pointedly on a spot on the wall, where there was probably blood spatter. His face was tight and tired looking- the oldness that now marred his features wasn't a passing illusion. The white sun light was dulled somewhat in the ramshackle building, the gaps between the wood slats letting some in.
Behind me, I heard Ian shifting around on the gritty floor, not speaking either. He wasn't just moving to keep his sore leg from cramping. I knew this.
Maybe the only one there who didn't care about what had just happened was Dogmeat.
Oh well.
For a few, horrible seconds, I remembered that sound- that goddamn sound- as Killian lay dying on the floor, in a pool of his own blood. My pistol shot had gone straight through a lung, and he went down silently, a grimace screaming across his face like the tracer of a missile. I remembered, as his guards came in, beyond the thundering of our guns and the taunts that raggedly cut through the air, the sounds that Killian made as he struggled for breath.
See, in the Vault, I learned that when someone made sounds like that, it was called a sucking chest wound.
It was a high, faint whistle, punctuated by coughs as his lungs spasmed from the blood flooding in, and as he tried to breathe, the sound of air rushing through the gunshot wound produced a sucking sound.
I almost threw up on the floor. It woudn't have mattered, all things considered- after all, Kenji's blood was still on the floor, even after we mowed him down in the process of saving Killian.
I saved him, then I killed him.
We were all quiet.
I remembered what I had promised that asshole, Gizmo. I bent, fishing underneath the ragged, rough-wove shirt Killian wore. He had been a quiet man, with frank brown eyes. Now they were moon-rimmed and glassy. His skin was still warm, the sweat making his skin sticky, and it clung slightly to my fingers if I happened to touch him. I swallowed back a gag as I touched the metal of the dog tags, warm from it's owners body heat.
I didn't rip them off. I don't know why.
It would have been disrespectful, I think.
I carefully popped the little metal balls, strung together, from their holder, and careful not to let the tags slide from the chain, slid it from around his neck. I could feel the chain dragging with the softest resitance against the skin of Killian's neck.
Standing, I heard my right knee crack. Shit. I should have let the Vault med tec take care of that before I left. Looking at Killian's right knee, I shut myself abruptly up.
I looked at the dogtags in my hand- the steel was thin and pale from age, uneven in it's width. One of the tags were bent slightly, and the only thing left stamped on the metal was a faintly visible "Darkwater". I didn't know if they were Killian's, or some ancestor of his. Probably the latter. The idea that this man had a family rocked me for a second, and I remembered ("knock on my mother-in-law's head") his wife.
I shut my eyes against the sight of the desert between the slats, and willed myself not to throw up.
