Something new from Doc

[Doc Hill]

Okay, my last attempt sputtered out. I couldn't write anything that didn't sound like a four year old came up with it. So I switched track for a while and came up with this. There may be more. I'm not sure yet. I just need some reaction. And maybe some constructive criticism.

Death, once it’s touched you, will haunt you. You live in it’s shadow forever. I’ve lived there far to long. My name is Jonathan Quentin Prophet. I’m a merc, a gun for hire, hired muscle, whatever. I’ve played the games of the Mafioso for to long. Now I have every crime family ever to cross my path gunning for me. I’m bleeding, bent, but I sure as hell ain’t broken yet.

The wind rustles through the twisted mockeries we call trees, I wince, too damn jumpy for my own good. I pump the contents of a stim-pack into my body and feel a little less like a ghoul, I check my gauss rifle, only thirty-six rounds and no clips in sight. Days like this I wish I was a jet-head. I stand up from behind the garbage can and immediately have a colt in my face, so much for the clever hiding place, it’s a supermutant in a zoot suit of all things, words vomit forth from his mouth in foreboding tones,� Boss Villick ain’t happy with you Johnny, he says that whoever brings him your head gets enough money to retire. And I can’t wait to retire."He smiles. I want to vomit." Any last words?� My trademark smirk and one word,� Sorry.� He looks down confused at the wakizashi blade protruding from his chest, then he just starts burbling blood all over my new boots. Dammit, these boots cost me a fortune. I take the pistol, and about eighty extra rounds. I hop in his highwayman (he sure hell wasn’t going to need it) and take off toward my armory. I’m sick of running, first Bishop, then Mora, Carlyle, and now Villick? To hell with this. I’m going to take care of my problems once and for all.

I pull up to my armory, an old brotherhood outpost that they gave to me for “services rendered� during the Brahmin wars. Don’t ask. I pass the retinal scan and the DNA check and I get whisked down to the underground portion of my base. I throw my pack onto the nearest table and keep walking back until I reach the medical bay. I’m hungry and have to piss, but if I don’t go see A.C.E. I’m dead anyway. After about five hours of rebuild I walk oozing naked (god I hate the medical fluid in those damned tubes) to the tiny bathroom, piss, shower and wrap a towel around me. I take a look in the mirror. More scars than I like. I look like a damn rag doll. Not the mention the subtle deformation caused by sub-dermal armor. I ain’t pretty, but I’ll do. I take the short walk to the weed area and fix up some gecko stew with a beer. I take the walk back to the common area and eat my meal in silence. This place is small by most standards, maybe big enough for nine people, but it can get damn quiet. I hit the sack shortly after, visions of revenge playing through my mind. When I wake up I march back to the weed and open the door into the small storeroom that serves as my armory. I check my one and only suit of power armor. T-51b, came with the place. I haven’t had a reason to pull the thing out, until now. I get into it, after about five tries and stomp around for a bit. Not bad. I strap my gauss rifle across my back and load up on ammo. I grab my plasma rifle and my Vindicator and head for Reno.
I’ve lived as their pawn for to damn long, this time I’m working for me, this time they’re the targets. The miles fly by and soon I’m back in the asphalt jungle of Reno, bright lights, big money, and filthy whores (I don’t have anything against whores, these just didn’t bathe that often). I park the car and rig a couple dozen plasma grenades to blow if anyone screws with it. The armor causes most to back off; I get a whole three yards before the car explodes. I hate Reno.