[con]The people
Posted: Sun Nov 17, 2002 5:25 am
The wastelands are the remains of society. They are the once-glorious now-destroyed lands of America. They are a place in which only the strongest survive, and the weak die. It may seem like hell. It is for many. It will be for others. And it was before. Even with the nukes dropped, humanity-like it always does- survied, but barely. When the people emerged from their vaults, deep within the mountains of America, most hoped for death. But others made their way, ever so slowly, into the new world.
We are on the highway now, it doesn't matter which one, no one cares anymore since transportation with vehicles is no longer a possibility. The highway is barely visible: Sand and junk cover it, and it has long since cracked apart. The afternoon sun seems brighter now, we want to find shade. But finding good shade in the wasteland is like trying to find one fish in the ocean. Up above we see that a shape is growing out of the horizon. A cracked shape.
Let us take wings(this is a book: we can do this) and soar towards the shape forming in the horizon. Now that we are at a better position, we see what this shape is-the remnants of what was once Sacramento California.
The outer most buildings and structures that were once a part of this city are now wrecks. We can barely tell what the buildings` purposes once were, and the signs that would have told us have now eroded to a point undecipherable(hey I made up a new word!!). It is a good thing we do not posess the wordly limitation of gravity, because if we did, we would have to walk on(there is no way around it)twisted, ruined scrap metal and cement. The cement and iron and metal creates a feeling of trepidation. We are now flying over it, thank God, and are entering the city(or what is left of it, rather). There probably was a street down there, amognst the twisted steel and rubble, but now not the slightest trace of road is visible. The junk and rubble caves into the buildings, most of which could be pushed over with a persons own strength. we now fly foward, hoping to see a more...presentable once-was building. The buildings seem to become less ruined as we move on, but still remain dead. We move on more, and finally find a near- whole building. Except nearly a third of it is missing from the top. We search for a window that we can enter to find shade from the harsh, unforgiving sun which has now move into "high noon" position. We find a window(or a hole)and fly towards it. We look inside before entering, to determine wether it is structurally stable. After we examine it, we find out that this room in particular, is surprisingly stable. We enter through the window, and drop to the ground(we no longer need our ability to fly at the moment) and walk around, testing our theory of its stability. It is as good as it looked. We can walk around without worry of falling through the floor and falling to our doom. We walk around, basking in the room's shade. But there is something wrong. It is one of the feelings many humans are born with- the ability to sometimes know there is trouble. But our sense of premonition is not finely-tuned. We look around the room, searching for the source of our fear. We find it:There is a medium-sized bed here. It is covered with many things: An almost-but-not-quite burnt blanket here. It has attracted flies for many days. But wait-we examine the bed closer. Aside from its once-mahogany finish, and rotting headboard is an arm. But this is no living arm my friends. It's not that easy. It is an almost green arm, gangrene has long since set in. Skin and muscle have parted from bone, and there is a faint glow radiating from it. Suddenly, the hand moves. We want to run away, because 0for the love of god ther's a zombie in that bed!!! But the people of the wasteland would know better(We are just guests to this ruined world), and would see that it is a ghoul- a once-human-almost-died-but-not-quite-kicked-the-bucket dead. It gets out of it's bed, extremely slowly. The ruined blanket falls off of the ghoul, and we get a complete look-it looks like a skeleton with some skin hanging off of it. The skin looks like we could move it off, or pull it off. It just hangs. The ghouls face is better preserved, but still in no normal state. There is no uniqueness to it ohter than the red hair it seems to have.The short, red hair is only on one half of his head, and like the skin looks very loose.
But he is not completely apart from Identification. A name tag-in perfect condition- says "Hello, My NaMe is WoODDY" in bold kiddie-type. He was a freakin kid? we might be thinking. But not quite perfect. The ghoul looks towards a plain white night table in...to put it bluntly, shitty condition. But on it is a picture that brings the ghoul to tears. A photo of a young boy, about 4, with flaming red hair and a big smile standing outside a house in formal clothing. Accompanying him is a BEEYUTIFUL young woman of about 20 in a magnificant gown and blonde hair. Next to her is a tall man with-flaming red hair holding her hand.
The name tag belonged to the poor man's dead child. We now, once again call upon our ability of flight and soar out of the builidng, and then out of the city. We don't know what to say. Soon, we reach a group of people standing guard around what appears to be a military bunker. A chain-linked Vibro-blade wire fence boxes it in. A symbol of a sword and gears through each other tells us that this bunker belongs to none other than the Brotherhood of Steel, technological beacon of humankind. They believe(and are probably right about it) that they are the sole keepers of technology for the earth. We feel great honor to walk amongst the "kick-ass" good guys. They have been through many hard times. The Mutant Campaign, The Enclave Campaign And the Revolution Campaign. But out of those hard struggles, they have found victory. They allied with the Vault Dweller and the Chosen one. They Saved the world from an enemy that almost proved more cunning than mankind. But they struggled, and they won.
Outside the bunker, moving around, is a man of about 27. Tall with jet black, untidy-but-still-slick hair. He wears both the armor of the Brotherhood(combat armor mk2 not Powered Armor)and the mark of the ranger-a tatoo on his back depicting a single star with three lines through it. His name is Jordan Marec, and he has the reputation of a helper, a defender a friend, and a stubborn young man. He has a non-addictive smoker dangling from his mouth. the light makes his eyes color stand out- bright green. He takes off his back-pack and not so quietly sets it on the ground in front of him. This awakens the man next to him, who quickly jumps up and stands in formation, as if awaiting morning inspection. Jordan laughs like a happy hyena on christmas morning. He nearly falls over. His friend, partner, and brother Mike is without his normal pants. They are off of him and in a heap next to his pack. We observe with great relief that his Undergarments are (thank the god) still on. Mike quickly picks up his pants and puts them on. "why'd you go on and do that for, Jordan? I almost had a friggin heart attack!" Jordan makes an effort to stifle his laughing. He says:"I just put(laugh) my backpack down and(laugh laugh) WHOOSH!!(laugh chuckle)You're up and ready to be inspected-without pants(hearty luagh)!!" Mike is not pleased. He roughly picks up his pack and puts it on. "what the fuck ever!! Just get over to you're post and stop trying to get me discharged" says Mike. Jordan has stopped laughing now, but still smiles. "ok, but I have to get my report log out" Mike snorts. "what for? your just gonna write the same thing you have written for ages-'No hostile contact reported!'" Jordan, although known as a comedian is a very serious person when it comes to his duty. "I have to write this down. I have been ordered to, and I will obey" says Jordan. Mike snickers. "what are you, a dog?" Jordan doesn't answer. He writes down his report and closes the book. He puts it away in his pack and puts the pack on again. Just now, a elevator door opens. Out of it come two knights with a sour look on their faces. Jordan comes up to one and pats him on the shoulder as he enters the elevator. "good night gracie!!". They both enter, and the doors close.
Away from the bunker, some 30 miles away, we can see smoke rising from a strange shape fixated near the horizon. Closer...Closer..
We see a sign. It says: Welcome to Junktown. A wall of ruined junk and scrap metal makes up the wall that surrounds the town and protects the town from most outside influence or danger. It isn't a big city, but it isn't a small city either. It is a basic Wasteland city. The gate is open, but the guards that are near it are closing it. The gate is made of two cars with small wheels on the bottom of them. It is closed and with a loud thud is locked with a long bar of varying junk.
Luckily, we're inside.
Ahead of us is a large, but short building. There are noises coming from it. It would seem that there are many people inside. Looking through a small hole in the wall, we can see that the town's guards reside within the building. We go inside.
There are approximately 12 guards gathered here, each wearing a suit of leather armor and holding a long spear.
One of the Guards is talking with a younger guard. "How was your day, Leo?" asks the older guard. The younger guard throws down his spear in what looks like disgust. "It was hell. You hear me? HELL! Didn't see a goddam thing today. I just stood still all day long". The older guard chuckles softly. "Ah, you'll get over it. Trust me. I've been guarding this city for 12 years". They continue talking about what is means to be a guard and what it takes.
We leave the house. Nothing else in the city is of any interest to us. Far North, 80 miles is a mountain. It would seem to be any old, boring mountain. But as we move closer, we see that this is no ordinary mountain. Inside a dark, damp cave is a huge metal door. A computer terminal lies next to it. The door is a door to a vault. Vault 19 to be exact. Through the door. We are in a clean white room. A few people wearing blue and yellow jumpsuits with the number "19" are talking about something. We listen.
An old member with a short, unkempt beard and glasses speaks with a middle-aged woman with blonde hair. They both have looks of worry and anxiety on their faces. "I.I...I don't know. Maybe we shouldn't go out. I mean...we..we don't know what could be out there...." The woman puts her hand on the man's shoulder. "The Overseer knows what he's talking about. We'll be okay!" The door opens loudly. They don't say another word. They slowly walk out the opening. It closes loudly behind them.
Outside the vault. The sun is now behind the horizon. It is pitch black.
So ends the transition.
Technology exists in the Wasteland. Although not much is left over, there are scraps of it left in many parts of the scarred lands.
However, friendship is hard to find. One could search his or her whole life for a friend and come up empty handed.
You cannot give up one for another.
And so, the day is done.
But not the life.
We are on the highway now, it doesn't matter which one, no one cares anymore since transportation with vehicles is no longer a possibility. The highway is barely visible: Sand and junk cover it, and it has long since cracked apart. The afternoon sun seems brighter now, we want to find shade. But finding good shade in the wasteland is like trying to find one fish in the ocean. Up above we see that a shape is growing out of the horizon. A cracked shape.
Let us take wings(this is a book: we can do this) and soar towards the shape forming in the horizon. Now that we are at a better position, we see what this shape is-the remnants of what was once Sacramento California.
The outer most buildings and structures that were once a part of this city are now wrecks. We can barely tell what the buildings` purposes once were, and the signs that would have told us have now eroded to a point undecipherable(hey I made up a new word!!). It is a good thing we do not posess the wordly limitation of gravity, because if we did, we would have to walk on(there is no way around it)twisted, ruined scrap metal and cement. The cement and iron and metal creates a feeling of trepidation. We are now flying over it, thank God, and are entering the city(or what is left of it, rather). There probably was a street down there, amognst the twisted steel and rubble, but now not the slightest trace of road is visible. The junk and rubble caves into the buildings, most of which could be pushed over with a persons own strength. we now fly foward, hoping to see a more...presentable once-was building. The buildings seem to become less ruined as we move on, but still remain dead. We move on more, and finally find a near- whole building. Except nearly a third of it is missing from the top. We search for a window that we can enter to find shade from the harsh, unforgiving sun which has now move into "high noon" position. We find a window(or a hole)and fly towards it. We look inside before entering, to determine wether it is structurally stable. After we examine it, we find out that this room in particular, is surprisingly stable. We enter through the window, and drop to the ground(we no longer need our ability to fly at the moment) and walk around, testing our theory of its stability. It is as good as it looked. We can walk around without worry of falling through the floor and falling to our doom. We walk around, basking in the room's shade. But there is something wrong. It is one of the feelings many humans are born with- the ability to sometimes know there is trouble. But our sense of premonition is not finely-tuned. We look around the room, searching for the source of our fear. We find it:There is a medium-sized bed here. It is covered with many things: An almost-but-not-quite burnt blanket here. It has attracted flies for many days. But wait-we examine the bed closer. Aside from its once-mahogany finish, and rotting headboard is an arm. But this is no living arm my friends. It's not that easy. It is an almost green arm, gangrene has long since set in. Skin and muscle have parted from bone, and there is a faint glow radiating from it. Suddenly, the hand moves. We want to run away, because 0for the love of god ther's a zombie in that bed!!! But the people of the wasteland would know better(We are just guests to this ruined world), and would see that it is a ghoul- a once-human-almost-died-but-not-quite-kicked-the-bucket dead. It gets out of it's bed, extremely slowly. The ruined blanket falls off of the ghoul, and we get a complete look-it looks like a skeleton with some skin hanging off of it. The skin looks like we could move it off, or pull it off. It just hangs. The ghouls face is better preserved, but still in no normal state. There is no uniqueness to it ohter than the red hair it seems to have.The short, red hair is only on one half of his head, and like the skin looks very loose.
But he is not completely apart from Identification. A name tag-in perfect condition- says "Hello, My NaMe is WoODDY" in bold kiddie-type. He was a freakin kid? we might be thinking. But not quite perfect. The ghoul looks towards a plain white night table in...to put it bluntly, shitty condition. But on it is a picture that brings the ghoul to tears. A photo of a young boy, about 4, with flaming red hair and a big smile standing outside a house in formal clothing. Accompanying him is a BEEYUTIFUL young woman of about 20 in a magnificant gown and blonde hair. Next to her is a tall man with-flaming red hair holding her hand.
The name tag belonged to the poor man's dead child. We now, once again call upon our ability of flight and soar out of the builidng, and then out of the city. We don't know what to say. Soon, we reach a group of people standing guard around what appears to be a military bunker. A chain-linked Vibro-blade wire fence boxes it in. A symbol of a sword and gears through each other tells us that this bunker belongs to none other than the Brotherhood of Steel, technological beacon of humankind. They believe(and are probably right about it) that they are the sole keepers of technology for the earth. We feel great honor to walk amongst the "kick-ass" good guys. They have been through many hard times. The Mutant Campaign, The Enclave Campaign And the Revolution Campaign. But out of those hard struggles, they have found victory. They allied with the Vault Dweller and the Chosen one. They Saved the world from an enemy that almost proved more cunning than mankind. But they struggled, and they won.
Outside the bunker, moving around, is a man of about 27. Tall with jet black, untidy-but-still-slick hair. He wears both the armor of the Brotherhood(combat armor mk2 not Powered Armor)and the mark of the ranger-a tatoo on his back depicting a single star with three lines through it. His name is Jordan Marec, and he has the reputation of a helper, a defender a friend, and a stubborn young man. He has a non-addictive smoker dangling from his mouth. the light makes his eyes color stand out- bright green. He takes off his back-pack and not so quietly sets it on the ground in front of him. This awakens the man next to him, who quickly jumps up and stands in formation, as if awaiting morning inspection. Jordan laughs like a happy hyena on christmas morning. He nearly falls over. His friend, partner, and brother Mike is without his normal pants. They are off of him and in a heap next to his pack. We observe with great relief that his Undergarments are (thank the god) still on. Mike quickly picks up his pants and puts them on. "why'd you go on and do that for, Jordan? I almost had a friggin heart attack!" Jordan makes an effort to stifle his laughing. He says:"I just put(laugh) my backpack down and(laugh laugh) WHOOSH!!(laugh chuckle)You're up and ready to be inspected-without pants(hearty luagh)!!" Mike is not pleased. He roughly picks up his pack and puts it on. "what the fuck ever!! Just get over to you're post and stop trying to get me discharged" says Mike. Jordan has stopped laughing now, but still smiles. "ok, but I have to get my report log out" Mike snorts. "what for? your just gonna write the same thing you have written for ages-'No hostile contact reported!'" Jordan, although known as a comedian is a very serious person when it comes to his duty. "I have to write this down. I have been ordered to, and I will obey" says Jordan. Mike snickers. "what are you, a dog?" Jordan doesn't answer. He writes down his report and closes the book. He puts it away in his pack and puts the pack on again. Just now, a elevator door opens. Out of it come two knights with a sour look on their faces. Jordan comes up to one and pats him on the shoulder as he enters the elevator. "good night gracie!!". They both enter, and the doors close.
Away from the bunker, some 30 miles away, we can see smoke rising from a strange shape fixated near the horizon. Closer...Closer..
We see a sign. It says: Welcome to Junktown. A wall of ruined junk and scrap metal makes up the wall that surrounds the town and protects the town from most outside influence or danger. It isn't a big city, but it isn't a small city either. It is a basic Wasteland city. The gate is open, but the guards that are near it are closing it. The gate is made of two cars with small wheels on the bottom of them. It is closed and with a loud thud is locked with a long bar of varying junk.
Luckily, we're inside.
Ahead of us is a large, but short building. There are noises coming from it. It would seem that there are many people inside. Looking through a small hole in the wall, we can see that the town's guards reside within the building. We go inside.
There are approximately 12 guards gathered here, each wearing a suit of leather armor and holding a long spear.
One of the Guards is talking with a younger guard. "How was your day, Leo?" asks the older guard. The younger guard throws down his spear in what looks like disgust. "It was hell. You hear me? HELL! Didn't see a goddam thing today. I just stood still all day long". The older guard chuckles softly. "Ah, you'll get over it. Trust me. I've been guarding this city for 12 years". They continue talking about what is means to be a guard and what it takes.
We leave the house. Nothing else in the city is of any interest to us. Far North, 80 miles is a mountain. It would seem to be any old, boring mountain. But as we move closer, we see that this is no ordinary mountain. Inside a dark, damp cave is a huge metal door. A computer terminal lies next to it. The door is a door to a vault. Vault 19 to be exact. Through the door. We are in a clean white room. A few people wearing blue and yellow jumpsuits with the number "19" are talking about something. We listen.
An old member with a short, unkempt beard and glasses speaks with a middle-aged woman with blonde hair. They both have looks of worry and anxiety on their faces. "I.I...I don't know. Maybe we shouldn't go out. I mean...we..we don't know what could be out there...." The woman puts her hand on the man's shoulder. "The Overseer knows what he's talking about. We'll be okay!" The door opens loudly. They don't say another word. They slowly walk out the opening. It closes loudly behind them.
Outside the vault. The sun is now behind the horizon. It is pitch black.
So ends the transition.
Technology exists in the Wasteland. Although not much is left over, there are scraps of it left in many parts of the scarred lands.
However, friendship is hard to find. One could search his or her whole life for a friend and come up empty handed.
You cannot give up one for another.
And so, the day is done.
But not the life.
