G
Guest
Guest
[font size=1" color="#FF0000]LAST EDITED ON Sep-20-01 AT 11:34PM (GMT)[p]FOREWORD:
"Spears of nuclear fire rained from the skies..
And the continents sank beneath boiling oceans.."
This is the post-apocalyptic world. We find ourselves in a world
completely hostile, a world that we doomed through our own blind
foolishness. This is the world of Fallout. This is the unfamiliar world
where both peril and opportunity about in equal measure. This is the
world which we so find fascinating..
We like the post-nuclear world for it shows us, of how even in the
deepest instance of defeat and regret, the human spirit can find a way
to fight on. Hope will never be killed, though our bones turn to ashes
and our dreams melt into darkness.. there will always be hope, and
prayer.. and opportunity.
WASTELAND:UNFOUND, the title, means that you should throw away certain
pre-concieved notions about the post-nuclear world. After all..
remember..it's -me- you're talking to.. I just can't resist but to
muddle around and switch over to the fanfic genre that we at the
Illuminati have been trying to carve.
The Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy.
But.. ease down. Relax. You won't see knights, wizards, and magic..
save in allegory. Just try to keep an open mind at whatever I might
decide to throw at your skull.. *grin* Oh, and this so happens to base
heavily on the "Hypothetical Study of the Wastelands", the possible
Fallout 3(?) plotline which I wrote some time ago.
I've completely scrapped the old Wasteland:Unfound that I wrote a week
ago. Forget that it ever existed, please.
*argh*
And..
....Now..
............Here..
...................We..
................................GO!!
------------------------
WASTELAND:UNFOUND
by bluepencil
------------------------
Book One: GRAVEYARDS OF GLASS
"For your heart is purest crystal dear
And all I see, are graveyards of glass"
-Petraius
PROLOUGE-
Chapter One- The caravan
There was a scarlet darkness, and a song that hummed at the very core
of being. "Happy birthday to me.. happy birthday to me...", the caravan
guard mumbled. He was pretending to be someplace other than this.. he
tried to imagine he wasn't sitting on a cartload of trader crap.. he
tried to feel a bottle of cold beer in his hand, not the metal barrel
of a sawed-off shotgun.
There are purists, in a sense, in this stark new world. Ever since the
day the bombs fell, and all of civilization was wiped out.. ever since
the long radiactive silence passed, and people came from the Vaults to
live their life anew.. they had to scrounge and life on the remains of
what had been man's greatest works. Towering structures, fallen,
crumbling.. the insides held broken treasures. And there are the people
who live and prey upon the weak.. civilization and morality were old
relics. It was live or die.. kill or be killed. This was the rule of
life, and nothing can change that law.
A man's guns were his most prized possesion. And as a caravan guard,
his rifle was his best friend in this cursed world. Benny Latherman
propped himself up with his mutilated gun.. and wished he'd cut a
little lower. But even an inch made a difference.. which did he
prefer, a comfortable leaning post, or a comfortable grave?
He wore a fine suit of Leather Armor Mark II... if you can say that in
the crisp military way that the Caravan Master did when he issued it to
his guards, and not laugh afterwards.. chances are, you've already gone
a little dead inside. Caravanning is a rather hazardous job.. though
the world has recuperated, and there are established cities, they are
still the only feasible way of mechantile distribution all over the
Wastes.
Caravans carry goods, guns.. medicine, food, and various other
valuable junk to people all over the remains of what used to be the
Western front of the United States of America. Towns live or die by the
chances of caravan routes.. they hold riches that give hostage to
entire cities... they hold precious resources that can turn the tide
of this war.
Benny opened his eyes, recognizing the futily of trying to craft images
in his brain. That had always been his brother's forte. Ah, Tobie...
little bro.. it's my birthday. I know I promised to get there today..
but you'll wait, won't you? You've been waiting for months since, when
I told my girl and you to evacuate out of NCR and its warzone. Wait a
day.. I'll get there. Keep my beer cool.. and sorry for the delay.
He looked out at the endless silver sands. "Can't you hurry this?!", he
asked the caravan driver.
She looked at him with undisguised hatred."No, dammit!! NO!! This is as
fast as the brahmins can go.. and you asked me that question TWENTY
FUCKING TIMES ALREADY!! Say it again, and I'll stick your iron up
your fussy ass!!!", she shouted.
"Hey, what's going on ever there?", the Caravan Master asked from the
front of the caravan line.
"Nothing, boss!", replied the woman. "Shut up, you little piece of
shit..", she hissed at Benny. "We'll get there soon enough."
Benny sighed, and leaned back into the load. She patted the brahmin
pulling the cart, the strange two headed creature that gave the
Wastelanders such usefulness. Its tough hide, layered togethere, formed
the resilient body armor that they wore. It was good against most forms
of low-impact bullets.. like buckshot and the 10mm hollow
point.. the kind of ammo used in old hand sub-machine guns. Raiders
liked using burst weapons, it gave great damage without needing a lot
of skill. Benny scoffed, remembering the many times they've been set by
such bandits. Yes, he could understand why they attack.. life is hard
enough as it is.. and it's not getting better, what with this War going
on and all..
But he couldn't understand why they got into this line of work.. lazy
bastards. If they want food and guns.. go join the freakin' army!
They'll get killed either way... most caravans are fairly well-armed
nowadays.
He fell asleep after a while, the wind singing a faint tune, and the
mooing of the brahmin, a freakish parody, served as contrabass..
Chapter Two - The black river
The caravan went on slowly but steadily, the beast of burden pulled
uncomplainingly.. and the guards were in that state of being half-
asleep. All but one..
He was the Caravan Master.. he was responsible for this load, the well-
being of people that accompanied it, and the hope it gave the
recipients. He was an experienced, hardened man.. a true Wastelander.
He didn't care a whit for the War, or the politics behind it. Let them
fight.. what's important is that they arrived on time.
Heaven help anyone who dared to slow the progress of HIS caravan.
He sat at the very lead haul of the caravan. The driver was a young
man, but he handled the direction of the beasts well. He kept a nice
even pace, eating up the miles without getting the brahmin tired. Now
and then, he would pat the beasts, in quiet encouragement. The
caravan master gave the young man's back an approving gaze.
He looked back, at his men.. and shook his head at the laxness they
allowed themselves to fall into. "Wake up!", he yelled. Soon, they
would reach the most dangerous part of their trip.
They just came from Tabernacle Flats, in Independent Utah. And the
dividing line between that region and New California was a stretch of
what used to be a river. It has long since drained away, forming a
gorge. They had to go down through a pass and through that valley
a while.. the perfect spot for an ambush.
He gripped the butt of his well-trusted weapon. The grandaddy of all
shotguns.. the Pancor Jackhammer. It was the weapon reserved for the
eilte police forces of New California Repulbic, but the Green Line
Caravan's owners bartered and awarded him this, for his long faithful
years of service.
They knew better than to hope he'd just take a desk job, or spend his
time showing young fools who never held a gun before, that there's more
to surviving than to just pointing the barrel and pulling the trigger.
Over time, he'd developed a casual, but thorough philosophy of life,
based entirely on caravanning.
The first rule was: Be prepared to die anytime. Behind a hill, so much
the same as many hills you've seen before, may hide a swarm of raiders.
And not your average trash, either.. these ones just so happened to
grab ahold of some high tech or big-caliber guns...
Be ready to die. Second rule: Take as many of the bastards down with
you.
"Be on guard!!", he shouted, rousing his sleepy men. He looked around,
and saw nothing that seemed out of place. But raiders can be smart..
he'd once lost half an equipage to a wily bunch that used camouflage,
and the bright noontime to their advantage. They stood on a hill, and
fired down.. the blinding sun behind their backs made accurate return
fire difficult.
He was a little drunk, that time.. he wore a flashy pair of sunglasses
to hide his bloodshot eyes.
And when he managed to survive that, the caravans began supplying their
guards with the small things necessary to turn aside raider trickery.
He's lived long, killed many, and learned slowly.. and he takes comfort
in the fact that he's probably saved as many lives as he had taken.
He gestured high with his fist, telling the people at the back to ready
their beast for a perilous descent.
The brahmin mooed and slowly slunk down the pass. The sandstone cliff
pooled umbra into the bottom of the ravine.
"The black river flows..", the young driver muttered.
The Caravan Master frowned at his driver, and gave the shadows beyond a
bare glance. Yes.. in this kind of light, it seemed as if the darkness
was solid somehow, as if the ghost of brackish waters were still flowing..
And the caravan trudged on..
Chapter Three- To shut out
Benny shivered as the biting cold winds wafted through the gorge. "We're
below ground..", he said. "Where is this wind coming from?"
"I don't know..", the driver replied off-hand. "Air should be weightless,
right? So it should be going up, right? Nah.. I heard something about
this.. something about pressure or like that..?!"
She waved her gloved hand in front of her face, feeling the
nothingness there.. and shrugged. "Air has weight.. we just don't feel
it 'cause we got that same air inside us pushing up."
"Where did you learn that?", he exclaimed. He had traveled with her
for twelve straight runs, and in that span of time, he's come into a
position of grudging tolerance of his partner's perennial black mood.
They were both "bonded".. they had signed contracts that promised their
services to the Company for a set length of time. People could get to
know each other, in such a span.
Benny knew almost nothing. Hell, he even forgot her name from time to
time..! For weeks there would be no conversation whatsoever, then there
would be small, enlightening snippets. Mostly it came, when they were
both drunk.. she had an iron stomach, but you can see the influence of
alcohol in how she was a little bit more talkative. She smiled a little
bit more, too. She was devastating when she smiled... and he had to
remember, there was someone waiting for him... "I didn't know you
studied physics."
"I didn't know you even knew the word "physics"..", she snorted. Ignorant
little fool.., she thought. Go back to your girlfriend, back
to your perfect little slice of the world. She looked at him, from the
corner of her slitted eyes. Damn, this wind could dry your eyeballs..!
She closed her eyes, but she could still see him, his left eyebrow
raised in a question, his face a mixture of wonder and excitement.
Go back to your perfect little world.
You've no place in mine.. damn it! I could make room for you... but it
would ruin your fragile view of the world in general...
Her brahmins plodded forward, unminding. Like here, thay had fallen
asleep with their eyes open. What dreams do cow-like creatures dream?
The brahmin bumped gently into the back fender of the caravan in front,
and came awake.. four heads mooed plaintively.
"Shit!", she spat, and pulled on the reins. The brahmin did their best
to turn around.. the people behind her, and the guard in front looked
at her with annoyance. "Blanked out, did ya, girlie? Don't do that
again..", the Caravan Master had spoken. "All it takes is one second..
and it's all over. You can dream all you want, as ya won't be wakin'
up."
"Why did we stop?", Benny asked.
Questions! Questions! Away with you and your questions!! I don't need
you around.. no. No, I don't! I don't! I won't!
I won't let anything near my heart again..
She shook her head violently, to clear it of stray thoughts. But yes,
the entire caravan was stalled, here in this lightless valley.
"Hey, Mort!", she shouted to the driver in front. "What's with the
hold-down?!"
The driver raised his fist. No, they weren't under attack. And also, no..
he didn't know why they stopped. "It's all up to the front.", the
guard said. "The lead cart's stopped."
"Benny,", she said tonelessly. "Go see what the old fart's up to.."
He rolled his eyesm and sighed. "Yeah.. yeah.. sure."
He hopped off the cart, and shivered as another waft of biting cold air
hit him smack as his boots met the ground. He almost toppled, but she
caught his limb and helped him steady himself.
"Thanks..", he grinned, but she only punched him lightly in the arm for
a reply.
Sourly, he walked foward, to where the head of this serpentine train
of men, women and beasts, vanished into the gloom..
-------
Urrgh. Shoot me now...
This was just an experiment in writing style.. should I continue this?
http://www.envy.nu/bpen/illuminati.jpg
"Spears of nuclear fire rained from the skies..
And the continents sank beneath boiling oceans.."
This is the post-apocalyptic world. We find ourselves in a world
completely hostile, a world that we doomed through our own blind
foolishness. This is the world of Fallout. This is the unfamiliar world
where both peril and opportunity about in equal measure. This is the
world which we so find fascinating..
We like the post-nuclear world for it shows us, of how even in the
deepest instance of defeat and regret, the human spirit can find a way
to fight on. Hope will never be killed, though our bones turn to ashes
and our dreams melt into darkness.. there will always be hope, and
prayer.. and opportunity.
WASTELAND:UNFOUND, the title, means that you should throw away certain
pre-concieved notions about the post-nuclear world. After all..
remember..it's -me- you're talking to.. I just can't resist but to
muddle around and switch over to the fanfic genre that we at the
Illuminati have been trying to carve.
The Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy.
But.. ease down. Relax. You won't see knights, wizards, and magic..
save in allegory. Just try to keep an open mind at whatever I might
decide to throw at your skull.. *grin* Oh, and this so happens to base
heavily on the "Hypothetical Study of the Wastelands", the possible
Fallout 3(?) plotline which I wrote some time ago.
I've completely scrapped the old Wasteland:Unfound that I wrote a week
ago. Forget that it ever existed, please.
*argh*
And..
....Now..
............Here..
...................We..
................................GO!!
------------------------
WASTELAND:UNFOUND
by bluepencil
------------------------
Book One: GRAVEYARDS OF GLASS
"For your heart is purest crystal dear
And all I see, are graveyards of glass"
-Petraius
PROLOUGE-
Chapter One- The caravan
There was a scarlet darkness, and a song that hummed at the very core
of being. "Happy birthday to me.. happy birthday to me...", the caravan
guard mumbled. He was pretending to be someplace other than this.. he
tried to imagine he wasn't sitting on a cartload of trader crap.. he
tried to feel a bottle of cold beer in his hand, not the metal barrel
of a sawed-off shotgun.
There are purists, in a sense, in this stark new world. Ever since the
day the bombs fell, and all of civilization was wiped out.. ever since
the long radiactive silence passed, and people came from the Vaults to
live their life anew.. they had to scrounge and life on the remains of
what had been man's greatest works. Towering structures, fallen,
crumbling.. the insides held broken treasures. And there are the people
who live and prey upon the weak.. civilization and morality were old
relics. It was live or die.. kill or be killed. This was the rule of
life, and nothing can change that law.
A man's guns were his most prized possesion. And as a caravan guard,
his rifle was his best friend in this cursed world. Benny Latherman
propped himself up with his mutilated gun.. and wished he'd cut a
little lower. But even an inch made a difference.. which did he
prefer, a comfortable leaning post, or a comfortable grave?
He wore a fine suit of Leather Armor Mark II... if you can say that in
the crisp military way that the Caravan Master did when he issued it to
his guards, and not laugh afterwards.. chances are, you've already gone
a little dead inside. Caravanning is a rather hazardous job.. though
the world has recuperated, and there are established cities, they are
still the only feasible way of mechantile distribution all over the
Wastes.
Caravans carry goods, guns.. medicine, food, and various other
valuable junk to people all over the remains of what used to be the
Western front of the United States of America. Towns live or die by the
chances of caravan routes.. they hold riches that give hostage to
entire cities... they hold precious resources that can turn the tide
of this war.
Benny opened his eyes, recognizing the futily of trying to craft images
in his brain. That had always been his brother's forte. Ah, Tobie...
little bro.. it's my birthday. I know I promised to get there today..
but you'll wait, won't you? You've been waiting for months since, when
I told my girl and you to evacuate out of NCR and its warzone. Wait a
day.. I'll get there. Keep my beer cool.. and sorry for the delay.
He looked out at the endless silver sands. "Can't you hurry this?!", he
asked the caravan driver.
She looked at him with undisguised hatred."No, dammit!! NO!! This is as
fast as the brahmins can go.. and you asked me that question TWENTY
FUCKING TIMES ALREADY!! Say it again, and I'll stick your iron up
your fussy ass!!!", she shouted.
"Hey, what's going on ever there?", the Caravan Master asked from the
front of the caravan line.
"Nothing, boss!", replied the woman. "Shut up, you little piece of
shit..", she hissed at Benny. "We'll get there soon enough."
Benny sighed, and leaned back into the load. She patted the brahmin
pulling the cart, the strange two headed creature that gave the
Wastelanders such usefulness. Its tough hide, layered togethere, formed
the resilient body armor that they wore. It was good against most forms
of low-impact bullets.. like buckshot and the 10mm hollow
point.. the kind of ammo used in old hand sub-machine guns. Raiders
liked using burst weapons, it gave great damage without needing a lot
of skill. Benny scoffed, remembering the many times they've been set by
such bandits. Yes, he could understand why they attack.. life is hard
enough as it is.. and it's not getting better, what with this War going
on and all..
But he couldn't understand why they got into this line of work.. lazy
bastards. If they want food and guns.. go join the freakin' army!
They'll get killed either way... most caravans are fairly well-armed
nowadays.
He fell asleep after a while, the wind singing a faint tune, and the
mooing of the brahmin, a freakish parody, served as contrabass..
Chapter Two - The black river
The caravan went on slowly but steadily, the beast of burden pulled
uncomplainingly.. and the guards were in that state of being half-
asleep. All but one..
He was the Caravan Master.. he was responsible for this load, the well-
being of people that accompanied it, and the hope it gave the
recipients. He was an experienced, hardened man.. a true Wastelander.
He didn't care a whit for the War, or the politics behind it. Let them
fight.. what's important is that they arrived on time.
Heaven help anyone who dared to slow the progress of HIS caravan.
He sat at the very lead haul of the caravan. The driver was a young
man, but he handled the direction of the beasts well. He kept a nice
even pace, eating up the miles without getting the brahmin tired. Now
and then, he would pat the beasts, in quiet encouragement. The
caravan master gave the young man's back an approving gaze.
He looked back, at his men.. and shook his head at the laxness they
allowed themselves to fall into. "Wake up!", he yelled. Soon, they
would reach the most dangerous part of their trip.
They just came from Tabernacle Flats, in Independent Utah. And the
dividing line between that region and New California was a stretch of
what used to be a river. It has long since drained away, forming a
gorge. They had to go down through a pass and through that valley
a while.. the perfect spot for an ambush.
He gripped the butt of his well-trusted weapon. The grandaddy of all
shotguns.. the Pancor Jackhammer. It was the weapon reserved for the
eilte police forces of New California Repulbic, but the Green Line
Caravan's owners bartered and awarded him this, for his long faithful
years of service.
They knew better than to hope he'd just take a desk job, or spend his
time showing young fools who never held a gun before, that there's more
to surviving than to just pointing the barrel and pulling the trigger.
Over time, he'd developed a casual, but thorough philosophy of life,
based entirely on caravanning.
The first rule was: Be prepared to die anytime. Behind a hill, so much
the same as many hills you've seen before, may hide a swarm of raiders.
And not your average trash, either.. these ones just so happened to
grab ahold of some high tech or big-caliber guns...
Be ready to die. Second rule: Take as many of the bastards down with
you.
"Be on guard!!", he shouted, rousing his sleepy men. He looked around,
and saw nothing that seemed out of place. But raiders can be smart..
he'd once lost half an equipage to a wily bunch that used camouflage,
and the bright noontime to their advantage. They stood on a hill, and
fired down.. the blinding sun behind their backs made accurate return
fire difficult.
He was a little drunk, that time.. he wore a flashy pair of sunglasses
to hide his bloodshot eyes.
And when he managed to survive that, the caravans began supplying their
guards with the small things necessary to turn aside raider trickery.
He's lived long, killed many, and learned slowly.. and he takes comfort
in the fact that he's probably saved as many lives as he had taken.
He gestured high with his fist, telling the people at the back to ready
their beast for a perilous descent.
The brahmin mooed and slowly slunk down the pass. The sandstone cliff
pooled umbra into the bottom of the ravine.
"The black river flows..", the young driver muttered.
The Caravan Master frowned at his driver, and gave the shadows beyond a
bare glance. Yes.. in this kind of light, it seemed as if the darkness
was solid somehow, as if the ghost of brackish waters were still flowing..
And the caravan trudged on..
Chapter Three- To shut out
Benny shivered as the biting cold winds wafted through the gorge. "We're
below ground..", he said. "Where is this wind coming from?"
"I don't know..", the driver replied off-hand. "Air should be weightless,
right? So it should be going up, right? Nah.. I heard something about
this.. something about pressure or like that..?!"
She waved her gloved hand in front of her face, feeling the
nothingness there.. and shrugged. "Air has weight.. we just don't feel
it 'cause we got that same air inside us pushing up."
"Where did you learn that?", he exclaimed. He had traveled with her
for twelve straight runs, and in that span of time, he's come into a
position of grudging tolerance of his partner's perennial black mood.
They were both "bonded".. they had signed contracts that promised their
services to the Company for a set length of time. People could get to
know each other, in such a span.
Benny knew almost nothing. Hell, he even forgot her name from time to
time..! For weeks there would be no conversation whatsoever, then there
would be small, enlightening snippets. Mostly it came, when they were
both drunk.. she had an iron stomach, but you can see the influence of
alcohol in how she was a little bit more talkative. She smiled a little
bit more, too. She was devastating when she smiled... and he had to
remember, there was someone waiting for him... "I didn't know you
studied physics."
"I didn't know you even knew the word "physics"..", she snorted. Ignorant
little fool.., she thought. Go back to your girlfriend, back
to your perfect little slice of the world. She looked at him, from the
corner of her slitted eyes. Damn, this wind could dry your eyeballs..!
She closed her eyes, but she could still see him, his left eyebrow
raised in a question, his face a mixture of wonder and excitement.
Go back to your perfect little world.
You've no place in mine.. damn it! I could make room for you... but it
would ruin your fragile view of the world in general...
Her brahmins plodded forward, unminding. Like here, thay had fallen
asleep with their eyes open. What dreams do cow-like creatures dream?
The brahmin bumped gently into the back fender of the caravan in front,
and came awake.. four heads mooed plaintively.
"Shit!", she spat, and pulled on the reins. The brahmin did their best
to turn around.. the people behind her, and the guard in front looked
at her with annoyance. "Blanked out, did ya, girlie? Don't do that
again..", the Caravan Master had spoken. "All it takes is one second..
and it's all over. You can dream all you want, as ya won't be wakin'
up."
"Why did we stop?", Benny asked.
Questions! Questions! Away with you and your questions!! I don't need
you around.. no. No, I don't! I don't! I won't!
I won't let anything near my heart again..
She shook her head violently, to clear it of stray thoughts. But yes,
the entire caravan was stalled, here in this lightless valley.
"Hey, Mort!", she shouted to the driver in front. "What's with the
hold-down?!"
The driver raised his fist. No, they weren't under attack. And also, no..
he didn't know why they stopped. "It's all up to the front.", the
guard said. "The lead cart's stopped."
"Benny,", she said tonelessly. "Go see what the old fart's up to.."
He rolled his eyesm and sighed. "Yeah.. yeah.. sure."
He hopped off the cart, and shivered as another waft of biting cold air
hit him smack as his boots met the ground. He almost toppled, but she
caught his limb and helped him steady himself.
"Thanks..", he grinned, but she only punched him lightly in the arm for
a reply.
Sourly, he walked foward, to where the head of this serpentine train
of men, women and beasts, vanished into the gloom..
-------
Urrgh. Shoot me now...
This was just an experiment in writing style.. should I continue this?http://www.envy.nu/bpen/illuminati.jpg