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The only way left is up.; Patrick gets off to a great start (solo)
Topic Started: Aug 17 2009, 03:53 AM (259 Views)
Harley
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Wastelander
[ *  *  *  * ]
(OOC: This is technically just the fleshing out of a story I hinted at in Patrick's character bio thingy. I felt that it needed to be expanded upon before I try to throw him into any current events.)

A week had passed since Patrick left home, looking to help those in need, get a little experience out in the wastes and possibly make a profit on the side. So far, Patrick hadn’t even seen a sign of civilisation, let alone another person. What he had seen a lot of; however, are things that wanted to kill him.

Four days into his journey north and Patrick, in the process of navigating a particularly steep and rocky slope, came across the largest scorpion he’d ever seen, idling by the base of the rocky slope. He saw it, and it saw him. Patrick tried to fight his instinct to run away as he retreated slowly, feeling around behind him for a rock, any rock that he could use as leverage to get back to level ground. However, once the scorpion began to follow him, his resolve faded and Patrick began to whimper as he scrambled to find a hand-hold. He looked to his left and saw a sturdy-looking rock, which he reached out to grab on to. Sadly, it wasn’t.
The rock slipped from the surrounding earth and Patrick dropped ungracefully to the hard, barren ground.
He tried to sit up, but temporarily abandoned that idea after he felt the damage the fall did. It didn’t feel like anything was broken, and he was thankful for that. He then began to wonder why he was thankful, and why everything was so fuzzy. His question was answered as a large blur scuttled in his direction. He then remembered why he was down there in the first place – the gigantic scorpion who was most likely going to kill him, and maybe even eat him.

That delayed revelation gave Patrick the adrenaline burst he so dearly needed to rise to his feet and run. Bruised legs pounding the dirt, ripped clothes flailing in the wind, breathing heavily and wildly, Patrick began to fumble around his pockets as he ran, trying to make a mental checklist of what he had in case the scorpion was still behind him once his breath ran out, which in this case would not be much longer. Gun? Check. Wait. No ammo. Shit. Knife? Check. But it won’t help against that thing. Maybe something in my bag. My bag? Check. Wait. Shit!

It then occurred to Patrick that his leather satchel was no longer resting on his shoulder. He cautioned a glance behind him, his legs beginning to fail him. It then also occurred to him that the scorpion was not chasing him. It then occurred to him that he never actually saw the scorpion begin chasing him.

He came to a stop, looking back in the direction he ran from as his lungs heaved, gasping for air. He couldn’t see his bag. He considered going back for it, but the image of the scorpion returned to him and he decided that it wasn’t worth it.

After all, it only held my food, my medical supplies and my only three bullets. I’ll be fine... I’m sure of it. Hell, I bet there’s a settlement just over that hill. There has to be.

Patrick kept walking.
"Aim for the head! That's where the pudding is!"

Patrick Reynolds, Wasteland Doctor
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: 3-8-3-4-9-6-7
Level/Species: 3/Human
Karma: -50
Traits: Good Natured, Fast Metabolism
Inventory: [2 Small Hides], [Pipe Rifle], [Rudimentary Revolver], [Switchblade], [Tattered Leather Satchel]
Appearance: Average height and weight. Green eyes. Dirty brown hair tied back in a ponytail. White buttoned shirt, black trousers and brown boots.
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Harley
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Wastelander
[ *  *  *  * ]
Patrick had been walking for several hours since the unpleasantness with the scorpion, and was still to find anyone, or indeed, anything. He began to wonder if the entire wasteland was this quiet, this desolate, this... boring.
As he reached the top of another hill, he was again greeted by nothing but dirt and rocks on the other side. Grunting in frustration, Patrick sat down on a nearby rock for a break. As he gazed toward the setting sun, he reflected on what he’d done, where he was going and what he left behind.

I left my family to go out in the middle of nowhere in the search of something I haven’t figured out yet, and almost get killed a few days into doing so. Now I’ve got nothing but an empty gun, a bloody pocket knife these rags that used to be clothes. And to add to that, I’m probably walking in the completely opposite direction to civilisation!

Patrick looked around. Dead ahead of him was nothing but more hills and rocks. Behind him, that scorpion was probably waiting for him to come back. To his left he saw more rocks and more hills. To his right, more rocks and more hills, but a dead tree. It was then he decided to change his direction.

Dead tree it is.

Patrick went to grab his water skin from his bag, but cursed when he remembered what happened to it. Then cursed again when he remembered what happened to everything else in the bag. Licking his cracked lips, he walked down the hill and to his right.
The sun had almost set, but Patrick didn’t feel like stopping. He kept walking, desperation, and thirst, growing. To get his mind off his bleak situation, he thought about all the things he’d do once he found civilisation.

First off, I’m going to drink some water. I don’t care if it’s irradiated. Then, I’m going to get some food. Once I’m full, I’ll buy a new bag. Then, I’ll buy some new equipment! Then I’ll start fixing cuts and bruises and make a living for myself. Maybe I’ll even buy some new clothes. Oh, and some ammo. Ammo would help.
As he absentmindedly caressed the grip of his empty revolver, it occurred to Patrick that he doesn’t have any money. And, from what he heard from his father, wastelanders don’t give stuff to people out of the goodness of their hearts.

Patrick walked up yet another hill, but stopped when he saw what was on the other side. That had to be some kind of settlement, it had to be. Those things he thought about buying, he knew he could get here. His pains and weariness fell away as he broke into a jog towards civilisation.

He approached and saw an extremely rusted pre-war sign crudely wedged in the ground before him, words in black paint covering whatever the sign used to say.

“Welcome to Bucket Town”

Bucket Town? Funny.

Patrick eagerly jogged toward the township, dusting himself and his clothes off with his hands in an effort to appear presentable. The sun having completely descended behind the hills. He stopped and looked around. Previously clouded by his desperation for water, it hit him that this is his first encounter with actual wastelanders and they might not be as welcoming as he might hope.

Well.. there’s people. And there’s buildings. Not what I was expecting, that’s for sure. Gun's in my right pocket, knife's in my left shoe. I hope they're friendly... or if they're not, they don't figure out my gun isn't loaded.

(OOC: This story's ended, Patrick's made it to Bucket Town. Now for the actual participating in events. Looking forward to it!)
"Aim for the head! That's where the pudding is!"

Patrick Reynolds, Wasteland Doctor
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: 3-8-3-4-9-6-7
Level/Species: 3/Human
Karma: -50
Traits: Good Natured, Fast Metabolism
Inventory: [2 Small Hides], [Pipe Rifle], [Rudimentary Revolver], [Switchblade], [Tattered Leather Satchel]
Appearance: Average height and weight. Green eyes. Dirty brown hair tied back in a ponytail. White buttoned shirt, black trousers and brown boots.
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Zilabus
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Er'ry day I'm overseein'
[ *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Nice work man. You did a good job making the wasteland seem... like a desert wasteland. We'lll just say you lucked out and found the dead carcass of a unlucky fella nearby, eh?

Quote:
 
Rewards
One large hide
Handgun rounds
Glass bottle


I know ammo is self regulated and all, but I put it in there anyways.
Eli "Slim" Ambrose
SPECIAL: 3, 9, 2, 7, 9, 3, 7
Level: 5
Bucket town reputation: -175
Equipment
Weaponry: Molotov, Cherry bombs, Combat Knife, Laser pistol, Tack Mines, Smoke grenades, Syringes.
Armor:Post-war suit Tattered leather jacket
Inventory
Homemade shotgun, Gumballs, Bedspread
Mentats x3, Psycho x2, Jet x1, Wiskey x2, vodka
4 1/2 x Hides, 15 LSB dollars
Appearance
Caucasian
Very tall, lanky, and slim, jet black hair in a greased into a subdued pompadore style. Dark eyes and a cleanshaven face. Brown Windowpane suit.

Kelly "Featherweight" Capozzi
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