The Reaver: my attempt at a wasteland tale
Posted: Tue Jul 12, 2011 6:23 am
So, when I played FO3, I was struck by a strong desire to make Tenpenny tower my personal fortress with ghoul "guards." Thus, the inspiration for the following story: The Reaver
The Wanderer takes a few, steady, deep breaths, exhaling sharply. He glances down at a mound of worn rags crudely stitched together. “Get going� he coldly commands himself and begins unraveling the tattered fabric. There is something wrapped inside, hidden in the tangled mass. A quick tug sends it spilling out. It used to be a mole rat. The face is frozen with an alarmed expression. The mouth is agape; its tiny eyes are sunken in their sockets. When it hits the ground, waves travel across its carcass. The flesh slides freely around its skeleton. The Wanderer quickens his work and, bypassing hesitation, he throws the fabric around his shoulders, sending a rush of putrid air around him. A grimace escapes his casual, cold expression. He dresses himself in the fetid cape.
Tranquility surrounds him. An orange sun is setting languidly behind him, providing the only discernable motion. It’s almost silent. There are no squeaks or snorts of mole rats, no chorus of insect legs busying about, no raiders’ screams or blaring super mutants. Not even the bass-like vibrations of deathclaws can be heard traveling across the dry plain. There is only a dull sound, barely discernable: a collection of short grunts and quick, guttural exclamations resonating from the monument before him. As the Wanderer listens, the sound seems to crescendo, echoing inside his head, bouncing against the walls of his skull and filling it. A shriek rips through the noise like a thrusting sword. It’s terrifying and shrill and mercilessly long. It stops, leaving the wasteland quieter and hollower. The Wanderer’s expression changes slightly, accompanied by a mild quickening of his heartbeat. Adrenaline hastens his work and he pulls something from his satchel.
It’s a mask. It takes some effort as he begins to situate it tightly around his head. The smooth, leathery material looks as though it once belonged to something else, long gone. The Wanderer’s features disappear behind it, taking on a more cadaverous look. There is a mouth and lips that are sewn together but open enough for breath to pass. The openings for the eyes are divided by stitching as they once belonged to two others. The Wanderer’s eyes reappear through them, giving life to his new face. A mask and a cape are not complete without jewelry, and the Wanderer completes his ensemble with three pieces; a 10mm submachine gun, sawed-off shotgun, and an F1 hand grenade.
The monument before him had hosted many bal masqué before the war. It would host one more, although less luxurious. The sun behind the Wanderer rolls out his shadow like a carpet and sets the monument ablaze. It’s still beautiful. Not to be fooled, though; it is rotten on the inside.
The Wanderer’s heavy steps follow his shadow, reducing its length. If you were to study his expression, you might call it singular determination. But, there is something intermingled with it, and it has left our Wanderer irreparably tainted. Nature has always been deadly. Venture out into it unprepared and it will probe you for weaknesses and slit your throat. The Great War had infused the land with all of man’s vice. The bombs fell long ago, but were still ripping through men, sparing no one save for the innocent who are destroyed before they can know its corruption. If you don’t resist it, you are made its messenger. The wasteland nurses the raiders with chems and sends them out to do her work. In this sense, the Wanderer bites the hand that feeds. Though he nurses from the same mother, he only reciprocates her hatred. He blasphemes against her, taking her nourishment and using it against her and her messengers. He survives to spite her. His hope for humanity is simply rebellion. But, his determination and rationality have cooked with hatred, jet and buffout, yielding blood rage.
He squeezes through a half barricaded door and wastes a thought realizing that the ones responsible for it were the first to die. His enrobed figure emerges on the other side into darkness. He stands still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust when something in his periphery catches his attention. “A light is on,� he thinks to himself in utter amazement. A bit of good fortune stands out in stark contrast to the chaos of the wasteland, and the Wanderer recognizes it immediately. Time is caps, and a functional elevator saves a lot. He allows himself some cautious hope. The light doesn’t distract him for long before the smell asserts itself head and shoulders above the stench of dead mole rat that clothes him. His eyes adjust, and he sees them: an ocean of ghouls; bastards of biology; over 100 of them grunting, snorting and stinking. They’re only a little less dead than the rotting remains of the not so fashionably “late� residents decorating the entrance hall.
He slowly moves through the crowd, carefully stepping around squatting ghouls and severed limbs. The entrance is much larger than it looks from the outside. He wastes a thought envisioning the double staircase in all its glory. They bow outward, away from each other and come back together on the second floor. He imagines the giant columns bathed in warm light and replaces the sound of grunting with soft chatter. The grunting drowns out his thoughts. They’re getting louder, and louder, filling the giant hall.
The Wanderer stops. He grips his shotgun in one hand and the grenade in the other. A split second passes. He decides how long to cook the grenade and how far behind him to place it. He knows how it will feel to put the barrel of his shotgun against the skull of the nearest, biggest ghoul while drawing his 10mm sub. A group of them come sprinting out of a nearby room. He starts to pull the pin, but stops. The room erupts in movement. He had gathered, over the many months studying ghouls, what it looks like to be attacked by them. This is different. They are escaping.
A lifeless ghoul flies into the entrance hall, smashes against the staircase and bursts, showering it in blood. Another one follows. Only, it’s not a ghoul. Or, it’s not a normal ghoul. It’s twice the height and it’s thick, maybe three times the bulk of the normal, emaciated kind. It throws its arms in the air and brings its fists down like sledgehammers. Shrieking, it passes its hand through the stone supports of the stairway rail like they were spaghetti sticks. Its eyes meet the Wanderer’s and he immediately rushes him. Our Wanderer lunges at him, draws his double barrel from his cloak and surgically places it under the ghoul’s chin. Pulls the trigger. Misses. “Fuck.� The wanderer wastes a thought, wishing he had some buffout. He draws the submachine gun and catches the ghoul in his peripheral vision, 30 yards away. It leaps at the Wanderer with godlike speed and catches three 10mm rounds in its chest and face. It brings its fists down where the Wanderer was. He stumbles from the impact, but still manages to send a few rounds into the ghoul’s side. It disappears and lets out a shriek. He responds with calm silence. He follows the thud of its footsteps as it sprints from pillar to pillar, shooting, missing. It leaps from behind a pillar and hurdles over the stairs. Three shots ring out, followed by a click. He throws the 10mm toward the ghoul, pulls the pin from the grenade and releases the trigger. The ghoul swings at the Wanderer. He narrowly ducks the blow and lunges away; partially catching another that breaks some of his ribs and sends him rolling through the dead remains. He finds his feet and raises the shotgun to meet the ghoul’s face. It leaps backward, and high. The Wanderer throws the grenade, meeting the ghoul in the air, and dives behind a pillar. He closes his eyes and relishes the sound of its limbs raining down around him.
He rises. A wince escapes his casual, cold expression. Resituating his cape around him, he finds his satchel and hobbles to the elevator. Ghouls begin to make their way back into the room. He presses a bronze arrow and a bell rings. It’s a good sound. It’s a sound that could mean his survival. The doors open with a little help and he presses the button labeled “Tenpenny Suite.� He thinks how funny it is that it was actually true. He had heard rumors of the feral ghoul reaver but had given it as much credit as some bullshit rumor that a bunch of raiders managed to catch a giant super mutant in a big, electrified cage. He opens the elevator doors and walks straight into the nearest bedroom. There’s no more use being cautious. It’s pristine. He grabs a coat hanger from a closet and lays down in the nearest bed. It’s comfortable. Opening up his satchel, he pulls out some surgical tubing and a medical plastic bag labeled “hydra,� hangs it from a lamp and injects it into his arm. “It’s perfect,� he whispers and falls asleep.
The Wanderer takes a few, steady, deep breaths, exhaling sharply. He glances down at a mound of worn rags crudely stitched together. “Get going� he coldly commands himself and begins unraveling the tattered fabric. There is something wrapped inside, hidden in the tangled mass. A quick tug sends it spilling out. It used to be a mole rat. The face is frozen with an alarmed expression. The mouth is agape; its tiny eyes are sunken in their sockets. When it hits the ground, waves travel across its carcass. The flesh slides freely around its skeleton. The Wanderer quickens his work and, bypassing hesitation, he throws the fabric around his shoulders, sending a rush of putrid air around him. A grimace escapes his casual, cold expression. He dresses himself in the fetid cape.
Tranquility surrounds him. An orange sun is setting languidly behind him, providing the only discernable motion. It’s almost silent. There are no squeaks or snorts of mole rats, no chorus of insect legs busying about, no raiders’ screams or blaring super mutants. Not even the bass-like vibrations of deathclaws can be heard traveling across the dry plain. There is only a dull sound, barely discernable: a collection of short grunts and quick, guttural exclamations resonating from the monument before him. As the Wanderer listens, the sound seems to crescendo, echoing inside his head, bouncing against the walls of his skull and filling it. A shriek rips through the noise like a thrusting sword. It’s terrifying and shrill and mercilessly long. It stops, leaving the wasteland quieter and hollower. The Wanderer’s expression changes slightly, accompanied by a mild quickening of his heartbeat. Adrenaline hastens his work and he pulls something from his satchel.
It’s a mask. It takes some effort as he begins to situate it tightly around his head. The smooth, leathery material looks as though it once belonged to something else, long gone. The Wanderer’s features disappear behind it, taking on a more cadaverous look. There is a mouth and lips that are sewn together but open enough for breath to pass. The openings for the eyes are divided by stitching as they once belonged to two others. The Wanderer’s eyes reappear through them, giving life to his new face. A mask and a cape are not complete without jewelry, and the Wanderer completes his ensemble with three pieces; a 10mm submachine gun, sawed-off shotgun, and an F1 hand grenade.
The monument before him had hosted many bal masqué before the war. It would host one more, although less luxurious. The sun behind the Wanderer rolls out his shadow like a carpet and sets the monument ablaze. It’s still beautiful. Not to be fooled, though; it is rotten on the inside.
The Wanderer’s heavy steps follow his shadow, reducing its length. If you were to study his expression, you might call it singular determination. But, there is something intermingled with it, and it has left our Wanderer irreparably tainted. Nature has always been deadly. Venture out into it unprepared and it will probe you for weaknesses and slit your throat. The Great War had infused the land with all of man’s vice. The bombs fell long ago, but were still ripping through men, sparing no one save for the innocent who are destroyed before they can know its corruption. If you don’t resist it, you are made its messenger. The wasteland nurses the raiders with chems and sends them out to do her work. In this sense, the Wanderer bites the hand that feeds. Though he nurses from the same mother, he only reciprocates her hatred. He blasphemes against her, taking her nourishment and using it against her and her messengers. He survives to spite her. His hope for humanity is simply rebellion. But, his determination and rationality have cooked with hatred, jet and buffout, yielding blood rage.
He squeezes through a half barricaded door and wastes a thought realizing that the ones responsible for it were the first to die. His enrobed figure emerges on the other side into darkness. He stands still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust when something in his periphery catches his attention. “A light is on,� he thinks to himself in utter amazement. A bit of good fortune stands out in stark contrast to the chaos of the wasteland, and the Wanderer recognizes it immediately. Time is caps, and a functional elevator saves a lot. He allows himself some cautious hope. The light doesn’t distract him for long before the smell asserts itself head and shoulders above the stench of dead mole rat that clothes him. His eyes adjust, and he sees them: an ocean of ghouls; bastards of biology; over 100 of them grunting, snorting and stinking. They’re only a little less dead than the rotting remains of the not so fashionably “late� residents decorating the entrance hall.
He slowly moves through the crowd, carefully stepping around squatting ghouls and severed limbs. The entrance is much larger than it looks from the outside. He wastes a thought envisioning the double staircase in all its glory. They bow outward, away from each other and come back together on the second floor. He imagines the giant columns bathed in warm light and replaces the sound of grunting with soft chatter. The grunting drowns out his thoughts. They’re getting louder, and louder, filling the giant hall.
The Wanderer stops. He grips his shotgun in one hand and the grenade in the other. A split second passes. He decides how long to cook the grenade and how far behind him to place it. He knows how it will feel to put the barrel of his shotgun against the skull of the nearest, biggest ghoul while drawing his 10mm sub. A group of them come sprinting out of a nearby room. He starts to pull the pin, but stops. The room erupts in movement. He had gathered, over the many months studying ghouls, what it looks like to be attacked by them. This is different. They are escaping.
A lifeless ghoul flies into the entrance hall, smashes against the staircase and bursts, showering it in blood. Another one follows. Only, it’s not a ghoul. Or, it’s not a normal ghoul. It’s twice the height and it’s thick, maybe three times the bulk of the normal, emaciated kind. It throws its arms in the air and brings its fists down like sledgehammers. Shrieking, it passes its hand through the stone supports of the stairway rail like they were spaghetti sticks. Its eyes meet the Wanderer’s and he immediately rushes him. Our Wanderer lunges at him, draws his double barrel from his cloak and surgically places it under the ghoul’s chin. Pulls the trigger. Misses. “Fuck.� The wanderer wastes a thought, wishing he had some buffout. He draws the submachine gun and catches the ghoul in his peripheral vision, 30 yards away. It leaps at the Wanderer with godlike speed and catches three 10mm rounds in its chest and face. It brings its fists down where the Wanderer was. He stumbles from the impact, but still manages to send a few rounds into the ghoul’s side. It disappears and lets out a shriek. He responds with calm silence. He follows the thud of its footsteps as it sprints from pillar to pillar, shooting, missing. It leaps from behind a pillar and hurdles over the stairs. Three shots ring out, followed by a click. He throws the 10mm toward the ghoul, pulls the pin from the grenade and releases the trigger. The ghoul swings at the Wanderer. He narrowly ducks the blow and lunges away; partially catching another that breaks some of his ribs and sends him rolling through the dead remains. He finds his feet and raises the shotgun to meet the ghoul’s face. It leaps backward, and high. The Wanderer throws the grenade, meeting the ghoul in the air, and dives behind a pillar. He closes his eyes and relishes the sound of its limbs raining down around him.
He rises. A wince escapes his casual, cold expression. Resituating his cape around him, he finds his satchel and hobbles to the elevator. Ghouls begin to make their way back into the room. He presses a bronze arrow and a bell rings. It’s a good sound. It’s a sound that could mean his survival. The doors open with a little help and he presses the button labeled “Tenpenny Suite.� He thinks how funny it is that it was actually true. He had heard rumors of the feral ghoul reaver but had given it as much credit as some bullshit rumor that a bunch of raiders managed to catch a giant super mutant in a big, electrified cage. He opens the elevator doors and walks straight into the nearest bedroom. There’s no more use being cautious. It’s pristine. He grabs a coat hanger from a closet and lays down in the nearest bed. It’s comfortable. Opening up his satchel, he pulls out some surgical tubing and a medical plastic bag labeled “hydra,� hangs it from a lamp and injects it into his arm. “It’s perfect,� he whispers and falls asleep.