Welcome Guest
[Log In]
[Register]
| Welcome to The Wastes. We hope you enjoy your visit. You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free. Join our community! If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| Traveling the Wastes | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Aug 29 2009, 06:28 PM (248 Views) | |
| Cain | Aug 29 2009, 06:28 PM Post #1 |
|
Vault leader
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
(OOC: Alright, this is my first traveling thread, I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to make a thread or just explain it in another thread, but I decided to err on the side of caution and make a new thread. Here's hoping if I'm wrong someone can point me in the right direction.) Business was beginning to dry up in the marshes that supported the Beauregard estate. Less travelers were coming through to trade, which meant Bill, by no means a scrapper but the most combat-capable of the three Beauregard heirs, had to hunt more. His two siblings, Sebastian and Remy, would then be the ones to do business with the occasional traveler, and suffice it to say, said traveler would be at a "business disadvantage" from the start. Including Bill, the Beauregards are experts, and have been experts, at the art of conning since before the war. Recently he has had a change of heart. Any customer could be his last, and he doesn't want himself or his family to be remembered as a bunch of swindlers. While there isn't much hope for his two brothers, he has decided to turn over a new leaf. So, he made arrangements with the family butler, Louie, to leave in the middle of the night on the family airboat. ------- "Alright, mister William, we got just enough cells for me to take you to the edge of the swamp and back. You sure you gonna just leave your brothers without a word?" Louie's voice retained some of his original humanity, but was not without the familiar rasp of a ghoul. "Yes, I'm sure of it. They're set in their ways, and I've no doubt they're going to think of my acts as self-righteous and insult me. Even if they didn't do that, I still wouldn't want to tell them. I'm entertaining a small hope that they may learn something from this. You know and I know that our family's at the end of its rope. Sebastian and Remy...they're too busy loafing around the estate indulging in..." Bill paused and gave Louie a look that conveyed the rest of his sentence. Louie gave him a disapproving look. "Oh, don't get me started on those two, Louie. Two grown men, heirs to one of the most financially successful families in the pre-War states, locked up in their rooms for most of the day. You think I don't know what they do in there?" "Your brothers are good at some things, and you're good at others. We best be headin' on out. 'Bout an hour, crocs'll be out." ------- |
|
William "Bill" Beauregard SPECIAL: 3 5 1 10 7 5 9 Level: 2 Karma: +50 EQUIPMENT Weaponry: .32 Revolver Armor: Pre-War Businesswear INVENTORY One traveling suitcase, currently empty. One comb. LOOKS 5'9'', dark brown hair, hazel eyes. Old-west-style mustache. Skin aglow with vitality and eyes alight with zeal. Excellent posture. | |
![]() |
|
| Cain | Aug 30 2009, 04:49 PM Post #2 |
|
Vault leader
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
As the Last Chance III, personal air-boat of the Beauregards slowed to a halt, dawn was breaking. The giant propeller slowly quieted down. Once it reached a comfortable level, Bill and Louie took off their earmuffs. Louie turned the boat so it was parallel to the shore, so as to slow it further. Bill stood up, ready to depart, his suitcase in hand. He drew his revolver and examined it. It had an ivory grip with the family coat of arms (a fox, bag of gold in mouth, retreating behind a shield) engraved in gold. It had been in the family almost as long as Louie, who had bestowed it upon Bill for his 18th birthday and told him of the revolver's history. He shook Louie's hand and embraced him, then stepped off to depart the boat, but hesitated. "Louie, old friend, you've been so loyal to us when we don't deserve it at all." Louie, seemingly taken aback, scratched his head. "What you mean by that, mister William? That's what us, whatcha callit, butlers, do, ain't it? I don' see how y'all wouldn't deserve it.." Bill, beginning to tear up, took his sunglasses off, gingerly putting them in his front coat pocket. "You know what I mean by it, don't act like you don't. You wouldn't be in this...state if Albert Beauregard hadn't shamelessly locked you out of the estate and let you suffer." Louie shook his head. "If I hadn't gone out that day to get groceries for the mister and missus, I'd a never met you, mister William. An' you turned out to be a fine young man." Bill's voice wavered as he continued to speak. He didn't know what to do, so he just sat down and motioned for Louie to do the same. "But Louie, that day, Albert doomed you, he...forced you to become what you are, to live past everyone..." Louie leaned forward and put a hand on Bill's shoulder. "Mister Albert didn't have no doing in that. I was out gettin' groceries, like I said. I stepped out the sto', and..." Louie made an expanding motion with his hands to illustrate. "Was all I could do to get back in there and hide out in the back. Whole place came down around me, I's lucky it was concrete and not jus' wood or brick, else I'd a been a shadow on the wall. I's 'doomed' from the start, mister William. An' mister Albert, I don' blame him one bit. None of us knew what was goin' on, he jus' got scared. We all do. His wife, missus June, well, she talk some sense into him, and they take one look at old, rottin' up me, and they just had a look about em', somethin' turrible. They took me in, and they's pamperin me for a week a'fore they finally listened to me and stopped. You know I wasn't nothin' a'fore mister Albert took me in, and I told him that. Guess because of that it was easy for me to forgive old mister Albert." Bill dried his eyes and looked Louie straight in the eye, standing up. "You're a good man, Louie. If things go south with Remy and Sebastian...if they get shot up in some place or something...I want you to have the estate." Louie nodded, and with a grunt, got up as well. "All right, mister William, that's enough of this mopey-talk. You got a long walk ahead of you, even with the help you're gettin' from Old Man Everett up Gilchrist way." Bill scratched his chin, slightly confused. "Where is that again? You know I'm not as familiar with our great state as you are, Louie." Louie chuckled. "Right, mister William. In my old age I forget that there ain't no more a Gilchrist county any more there is a President. What you gonna do is, you gonna hug the west coast. It ain't gonna be hard walkin', since you got mostly beaches that way. Eventually, you's gonna come to a rusty old sheet metal shack with a lil' ol' dock a couple yards off, and a big ol' plane what floats in the water. That there's Old Man Everett's shack." Bill stepped onto the shore, and tipped his hat to Louie, a long-forgotten gesture. "Thank you so much, Louie. I'll never forget what you've done for me." Louie waved to Bill. "You be careful out there. Make your daddy proud!" With that, the two men went their separate ways. Bill put his aviators back on and began his walk, and Louie slipped on his earmuffs, starting up the air boat once more, gliding across the 'glades back homeward. --- |
|
William "Bill" Beauregard SPECIAL: 3 5 1 10 7 5 9 Level: 2 Karma: +50 EQUIPMENT Weaponry: .32 Revolver Armor: Pre-War Businesswear INVENTORY One traveling suitcase, currently empty. One comb. LOOKS 5'9'', dark brown hair, hazel eyes. Old-west-style mustache. Skin aglow with vitality and eyes alight with zeal. Excellent posture. | |
![]() |
|
| Cain | Sep 1 2009, 05:38 PM Post #3 |
|
Vault leader
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
The west coast of Florida was not bad for a post-nuclear wasteland. The typical staples of the wastes were present--withered trees, dead grass and pale sand, but the whole area had a nice sort of order to it. Bill expected it to be glassed in some areas, but did not see any. He reasoned that because this area was primarily real estate and wasn't directly hit. He didn't have a specific idea of where he was because of the state of things, but having a better education than most wasters (thanks to Louie) did help. He had been hugging the coast as Louie had instructed. He passed through husks of what were once towns. Aside from one town that gave him the typical showdown at noon reception, none were inhabited. He had been internally groaning and moaning about how much his feet hurt and finally decided to "settle down" in a little coastal town by the generic name of "Beachview." He chuckled at the name and pondered how many other towns in the pre-War states were called "Beachview." The town was abandoned. Even before the war, it looked like Beachview didn't have much services to render besides a place for traveling sightseers to stop. Bill noticed that most of the town's attractions were mundane things made into mountains with fake or otherwise insignificant history. The one useful thing the town had beside a (long-dead) mom and pop diner was a motel. The motel was missing most of the letters on its signboard, except for "H", "O," and "E." Hoe. Bill's inspection of the interior revealed that even before the war, the motel itself was only slightly more interesting than the garden instrument for which it was now named. The decor used a drab brown theme with beige thrown in here and there. Bill randomly grabbed a key and went to its corresponding room, and sprawled out on the mattress. It was still soft and Bill was exhausted. He got up, hung his hat and coat up, and put his sunglasses on the nightstand before locking his door and going to sleep. |
|
William "Bill" Beauregard SPECIAL: 3 5 1 10 7 5 9 Level: 2 Karma: +50 EQUIPMENT Weaponry: .32 Revolver Armor: Pre-War Businesswear INVENTORY One traveling suitcase, currently empty. One comb. LOOKS 5'9'', dark brown hair, hazel eyes. Old-west-style mustache. Skin aglow with vitality and eyes alight with zeal. Excellent posture. | |
![]() |
|
| Cain | Sep 5 2009, 10:14 AM Post #4 |
|
Vault leader
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
Bill found himself in front of a large audience in a town hall. He stepped on to the stage, waving to the audience. They were loving it, and the applause seemed to swell the closer he got to the lectern. He confidently strode up to the lectern, adjusted his tie, and raised his hand, palm facing the audience, politely motioning for the applause to come to an end. Just as he grabbed the microphone, a loud bang seemed to tear apart the universe. Members of the audience ran frantically left and right, screaming, trampling each other and pushing one another out of the way, trying to evade the phantom gunman. Bill, completely unharmed, did not take any more chances with his assailant's aim and ran backstage. The bangs continued, each one seeming to shatter the Earth more and more, until finally, one bang disrupted Bill from his dream state. Bill fell out of bed and looked out the window. It was early morning, and would have been a peaceful day if not for the repeated gunfire. He could not make out what sort of arms were being used, only the general direction. They seemed to be coming from the northeast, but he couldn't tell how far. Bill saw this as his first real chance to do some good in the wastes, and quickly got dressed. He tried to turn on the shower in the bathroom but it was rusted shut. He tried the sink, and a pitiful little stream of water came out. Even if he had the time, he thought, he did not have the dignity to bathe his entire body using a sink. Instead, he decided to simply wet his hair, taking care to only use as much as was needed (rads and hair did not mix) and saying a brief little prayer, hoping that his good looks would be spared. He grabbed the courtesy comb on the vanity and slicked his hair back, allowing one brown tuft of hair to dangle, giving him the look of some sort of debonair wasteland gentleman. Walking out of his room he grabbed his hat and coat, slipping them on. On his way out of the motel he put the key back in its rightful place. ---- After a couple of sandy hills along the coast, Bill saw the cause of the commotion. A group of raiders were firing on an old sheet metal shack. After surveying his surroundings he noticed the seaplane and the dock that Louie had mentioned. That would make this Old Man Everett's house. The curtains which in the wastes commonly served as windows were riddled with bullets, and occasionally rustled outward quickly. Bill figured that someone inside was returning fire, albeit slowly and blindly. As Bill silently crested another dune, he figured that he was about 30 feet from the shack. He waited for a pause in the gunfire, and then pointed his gun straight up in the air, firing a shot. He yelled at both the raiders and the house's inhabitant. "Did no one ever teach you louts to settle problems diplomatically?" Bill figured the raiders to be young and green, because they replied with words rather than bullets. The lead of the group, wearing rather cumbersome and ineffective-looking armor and sporting a mohawk, spoke. "Well, we've been yelling 'fuck you' at him all day and he ain't been much receptive." The others laughed and chuckled at this. The old man in the hut wasn't trying to get the jump on them, so that was good. "Bill? Is that you, son?" "Sure as sunshine, Everett." Bill then addressed everyone. "Listen, you all. I'm going to holster my sixgun here and come on down there, and we'll see if we can't get something done without violence, alright?" Bill's manners and pacifying, Huckleberry Hound-esque drawl worked in his favor once more, as the raiders holstered their weapons. Bill approached the raiders and tipped his hat to them with his free hand (his other occupied with holding his suitcase). Holding out his hand, he offered a handshake to the leader of the raiders. "My name is William Beauregard, but friends call me Bill. Seeing as how I hope to make friends of all of us, you three may also call me Bill." The raiders seemed stricken by the absurdity of manners in the wasteland, but returned them nonetheless. The leader introduced himself and his friends. "How's it hanging, Bill? I'm Groucho, and this guy on my left, he's Zeppo. Guy on my right's Harpo. He don't say much, he was born screwed up so he can't talk." Bill shook the hands of the other two raiders. ---- |
|
William "Bill" Beauregard SPECIAL: 3 5 1 10 7 5 9 Level: 2 Karma: +50 EQUIPMENT Weaponry: .32 Revolver Armor: Pre-War Businesswear INVENTORY One traveling suitcase, currently empty. One comb. LOOKS 5'9'', dark brown hair, hazel eyes. Old-west-style mustache. Skin aglow with vitality and eyes alight with zeal. Excellent posture. | |
![]() |
|
| Cain | Sep 8 2009, 03:08 AM Post #5 |
|
Vault leader
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
"Now, boys, let me show you how a Southern gentleman gets his business done. Normally I'd ask you all to leave your guns at the door, but because I trust you I'll allow you to take them inside with you, so long as you don't make any sudden acts of violence." The raiders mumbled amongst themselves in agreement. Apparently, Bill was an okay guy. He knocked politely on the door. "Mr. Everett, it's me, Bill. I trust Louie sent word of my arrival? These fine young men want to speak with you. Maybe we could come to an agreement?" Everett laughed from inside. "Louie told me you could talk buzzards off a brahmin shit heap, but talking down raiders? Come on in, sonny, and your new friends too. Door's unlocked." He laughed again. Bill and the raiders came in. The house was the typical Wasteland fare. Everett's personal effects were around the house in as orderly a fashion as the times allowed. He had a cozy little affair, though, as his bed was tucked away in a nook that faced a window, allowing him a view of the night sky. Under that same window was his presumably working stove, most likely placed there so that he could watch the shore as he cooked. In the center of the room was a circular table with four chairs. Bill, Groucho, and Everett took seats at the table. Harpo walked around the house, apparently thinking that he wouldn't be much use in negotiations, and Zeppo leaned against the door, content to let Groucho do the talking. "Alright, gentlemen. What seems to be the problem? What caused this dispute? I'll let Groucho here explain himself first and then I'll hear Everett's side of the story." Groucho cleared his throat and then began to talk. "Well, um, I know this ain't gonna help my cause none but my boss, our boss, he wants that plane bad. He's got people that can put them together, like Zeppo, and people who can keep em' working, like me. He just needed one so his techs could have like, a blueprint to work from. Then once they made enough planes, Harpo here would teach our boys how to fly. He can't talk but he can write just fine." Bill twisted his mustache with his index finger and thumb. "What does your boss want with so many planes? Raiders are not a charity, as we all know. Be level with me, what is in store for the world at large if your boss gets what he wants?" Groucho hesitated. Harpo, listening intently, pointed at his throat (concealed by a bandanna) solemnly, and nodded. "Look, man. Honestly if he gets this plane the wastes are fucked, even more than they already are. He sits out in the middle of the base in this high chair, he just waits for people to fuck up so he can off them. Sometimes the fucker shoots at the clean up crew to speed them up. Harpo, he's the only one in the camp that can fly planes. Used to be able to talk until he tried to escape one day. Bossman personally climbed down the chair, had the guards hold him, and he took a ripper to Harpo's throat. Slowly. Did it until Harpo couldn't talk no more, he just made this...noise, man. I hear it in my sleep, man." Groucho looked back and forth from Bill to Everett, with the look of a scared animal in his eyes. "I can't go back there without that plane. I can't." Bill nodded. "It'll be okay, I'm here to help. I'm good at making things right." It all made sense now to him. These boys weren't cut out for raiding, not one bit. Their boss had probably taken them from somewhere one way or another. They were anything but killers, which explained their willingness to talk things out and their hesitation about simply beating down the door to get to Everett. "Everett, can you help these boys in any way? Does this plane even work 200 some odd years after its heyday?" Everett scratched his scraggly beard. "Course it works. All it takes is elbow grease. Point is, working or not, it's mine," he said, then noted the despair in Groucho's eyes, "but Louie told me a good bit about you, and from what I heard, I'm guessin' you can come up with some crazy plan that'll help us all out." Bill nodded again, acknowledging the gravity of the situation. "If Harpo here's the only pilot, why send him out here where he could get shot up?" Groucho, calming down, wiped a tear from his eye. "He's also the best shot. Bossman sent him because he fended off a whole gang of slavers that came to the camp to try and recruit some of us. I guess he just didn't really have anything better to do, anyway. Your friend here could probably tell you about some of the other parties we've sent down here to try and grab the plane. Boss has been getting pissed lately. I heard him say that he was gonna start sending more and more guys down here after the plane if we couldn't get it. Your friend's a tough old bastard but even he can't fight an entire army." Everett, still scratching his beard, cut in. "I hate to give this house up, but it looks like I'm going to have to make a run for it along with these youngins and you. Maybe they can come with us to Bucket Town?" Bill looked at Everett, conveying concern. "It seems you're all in mutual danger here. But, fear not, for I have a mutually profitable way out of this. And yes, Everett, you're going to have to give up this shack of yours." -------- |
|
William "Bill" Beauregard SPECIAL: 3 5 1 10 7 5 9 Level: 2 Karma: +50 EQUIPMENT Weaponry: .32 Revolver Armor: Pre-War Businesswear INVENTORY One traveling suitcase, currently empty. One comb. LOOKS 5'9'', dark brown hair, hazel eyes. Old-west-style mustache. Skin aglow with vitality and eyes alight with zeal. Excellent posture. | |
![]() |
|
| Cain | Sep 9 2009, 05:53 PM Post #6 |
|
Vault leader
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
Bill stood up from the table and began to pace around the room, working himself into the necessary decorum for giving a speech. He had the air of a general lecturing his troops on an upcoming battle. "This is what we're going to have to do. I'll go into town and get some...some..." Bill knew what he was doing but had reservations about it. "Look, I'm no grave robber but we need skeletons. I'll go into town and get some. Your boss doesn't know me so I only need four. I need you three to come with me and help me carry them. I'm no weightlifter myself." The raiders looked confused as to how this would help, but went merrily along anyway. The group was able to find one in the motel, two in a diner, and one sitting outside of the doors of a Mocha Joe's. The raiders carried their respective skeletons dutifully and with ease, but had to help Bill several times. His poor physical strength was one thing, but he also had reservations about what he was doing, which caused him to have to put down his skeleton several times, and he dropped it once when he could have sworn it shifted ominously. He resorted to looking away from it and dragging it through the sand by one foot, grimacing all the while. After what seemed to Bill to be an entirely too long amount of time, the group reached the shack, skeletons in tow. "Bring them in, and arrange them, standing up, near the oven. Bill demonstrated what he meant and leaned the skeleton against the table. The raiders stood theirs up near the oven. "This way, they'll be blown back. What we're going to do is make it look like Everett here blew up the house with you three in it as some sort of last stand, and make it look like the explosion took the plane with it." Bill looked at the skeleton leaning against the table ponderously. He would have thought that skeletons this old wouldn't be connected, but to question this when planes, ovens, vending machines and so many staples of pre-war life were present (and often working) 200 years later seemed ridiculous to him. "Everett, turn your oven on and cut the gas line." Everett turned the oven on and looked behind it for the gas line, then cut the line with a steak knife. "You're all going to have to give up your weapons. Find some way of putting your gun near whatever skeleton you want to be you, and do it. He can be holding it, or what have you, it just has to be near him so that it looks like you all charged in here with weapons. Everett, you too." They all did as they were instructed. "Push the curtains inside of the house so that as little gas as possible escapes the house. It still ought to bring the house down even considering your windows are basically holes with curtains, but every little bit helps." Once again Bill's instructions were followed to the letter. "I know you're worried about how you're going to defend yourselves, but where we're going, there's a place where you can purchase weaponry, or so I hear. Now, let's get out of the house. Close the door tightly behind you, and let's wait, I'd say about a half an hour." As they exited, Bill continued. "I'm no explosives expert, but gas explosions shouldn't be near as big as nuclear ones. Half an hour I'd say, in my own humble opinion, should be enough to take the house and our transportation will be fine." The group of four took cover behind a dune about 100 feet from the house. "I'd say a half an hour is when the shadow of the house goes from where it is now to facing the plane. What do you gentlemen think?" The rest nodded in agreement. Watches were rare and often unreliable in the wastes. They waited. When the time came, Bill spoke once more. "Do any of you have explosives of any sort?" Harpo tapped him on the shoulder, presenting an improvised explosive device fashioned from shoelace and a lead pipe. Bill was confused and took it in his hands, not understanding. "That there's a pipebomb, Bill." Everett chuckled. "Haven't seen one since my adventuring days. I thought folks had found some other way to blow eachother's shit away, but lookie there! Same as always. Light that there shoelace, throw the doodad, and run like hell." Harpo nodded. Bill wasn't exactly a major league pitcher and appealed to the group. "Someone else should throw it. I've got the arm of a rotten tree." The others chuckled at this, and even Harpo cracked a smile. He made motions indicating he would throw it, and Bill handed the device back to him. It seemed that of the three Harpo was the most seasoned. If that was true, he thought, the other two were lucky to come across himself and Everett at this crucial time, since the most experienced was now by unfortunate circumstances the least talkative. Harpo wound up his arm like a pitcher of old and threw the pipebomb after lighting it with a zippo lighter. It sailed through the air, end over end, clanging against the windowsill and flipping into the house as it ended its maiden voyage. Everett stood and gave a solemn solute to his place of residence, and moments later it exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere. The group had to lay prone in the space of about a second or two to avoid being hit by one particularly wayward piece of sheet metal. When the ground stopped shaking and he figured it safe to stand, Bill surveyed his work. |
|
William "Bill" Beauregard SPECIAL: 3 5 1 10 7 5 9 Level: 2 Karma: +50 EQUIPMENT Weaponry: .32 Revolver Armor: Pre-War Businesswear INVENTORY One traveling suitcase, currently empty. One comb. LOOKS 5'9'', dark brown hair, hazel eyes. Old-west-style mustache. Skin aglow with vitality and eyes alight with zeal. Excellent posture. | |
![]() |
|
| Cain | Sep 10 2009, 10:54 AM Post #7 |
|
Vault leader
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
The house did look as if some sort of explosion caused by a device specifically made to do so had occurred. The skeletons looked convincing and "their" weapons were beside them, flaming and partially melted. Several flaming sheets of metal had made their way to the dock, and would probably ignite it soon. Bill motioned for the others to get up. "I think it's time we left. Everett, can you drop us off at Bucket Town? In fact, why don't we all just go there?" "I can't," he said. "There's a snooty son of a bitch living there what thinks he's hot shit just because he can hit things with his peashooter. No, I think I'll take my wings somewhere else, maybe start up the loner life somewhere else." The raiders looked as if this was an unsatisfactory plan, as well. "You can go if you want, but I think we better lay low for a while. There'll be guys lookin' for us, and if we stay in some town or something they can find us, and they might take some of the townies too." Everyone boarded the plane. Bill understood his new friends' reasons for not staying but was nonetheless disappointed that they could not have a second chance, as he could. However, he thought, at least he had been able to improve their lives this small amount, and that was worth something. Bill took a seat next to Everett, who was sitting in the pilot seat. Everett motioned for him to sit in the back with Zeppo and Groucho. "I need Harpo or whoever up here with me, best to have both pilots up front." --- |
|
William "Bill" Beauregard SPECIAL: 3 5 1 10 7 5 9 Level: 2 Karma: +50 EQUIPMENT Weaponry: .32 Revolver Armor: Pre-War Businesswear INVENTORY One traveling suitcase, currently empty. One comb. LOOKS 5'9'', dark brown hair, hazel eyes. Old-west-style mustache. Skin aglow with vitality and eyes alight with zeal. Excellent posture. | |
![]() |
|
| Cain | Sep 10 2009, 03:29 PM Post #8 |
|
Vault leader
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
Bill stepped into the back with Zeppo and Groucho. Everett had scavenged some car seats and welded them to the floor. They were very spartan and basically wireframes with springs in the appropriate places, yet they were oddly comfortable. He noticed a lap belt dangling from the sides. It was no great task to buckle it. He demonstrated so that Groucho and Zeppo could do the same. Everett's voice came out of a jury-rigged PA system. It looked as if it were built using a bullhorn and various electrical wiring, most likely from robots. Also of note was that the bullhorn must have needed replacements at the time Everett found it, as his voice came out sounding like one of the janitor robots so often found in the southern wastes. "Alright, yall. Me and, uh, Harpo here, we're gonna take her up nice and smooth. Pretty calm today so we shouldn't hit no turbalance." It was an unsettling experience, being in the plane, but for the only two pilots in the wastes that he knew of, Everett and Harpo were doing an alright job. It was quieter than Bill would have thought in the interior. Perhaps it was just a testament to the plane's fine construction and Everett's careful maintenance. He and the two other men had quiet conversations. All of a sudden, the plane jolted. It startled the passengers a bit, but Everett explained over the intercom that it was what was known as "turbalance," and was apparently a common occurence in the skies. The trip, apart from the aforementioned bit of "turbalance," was mostly free of these unpleasant moments. "Bill, come on up here," said Everett. Bill went on up there. He was startled by the look of the sea. One could tell that the water was nowhere near as clean as how it was before the war, yet the sun looming over the ocean and sending shimmering little diamond patterns onto the water seemed to have a calming effect on the three men in the cockpit. Even Harpo, normally downtrodden, stoic, or some combination of the two, had a certain twinkle in his eyes, an ever so slight upturn to his normally pursed lips. "It takes more fuel at once to start this baby than to keep on goin'. We's still gonna git you to Bucket Town, but we's gonna do it a mite different than landing. We'll fly you over, and you're gonna put on yonder backpack and jump out." Bill couldn't believe his ears. "You want me to what?" ----- |
|
William "Bill" Beauregard SPECIAL: 3 5 1 10 7 5 9 Level: 2 Karma: +50 EQUIPMENT Weaponry: .32 Revolver Armor: Pre-War Businesswear INVENTORY One traveling suitcase, currently empty. One comb. LOOKS 5'9'', dark brown hair, hazel eyes. Old-west-style mustache. Skin aglow with vitality and eyes alight with zeal. Excellent posture. | |
![]() |
|
| Cain | Sep 13 2009, 04:49 PM Post #9 |
|
Vault leader
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
Bill could see Bucket Town approaching quickly out of the now open side door of the plane. It looked as if a bunch of sheet metal used in the construction of some important thing had been left atop a hill by an absent-minded worker. The outskirts of the town were dotted with some tents. He thought that the safer landing would be in that area, as there were less jagged metal outcroppings to tear the parachute on. His hat, glasses and gun safely secured in his suitcase, he put on the backpack. Holding his suitcase firmly in one hand with a goodly bit of worldly terror flowing through him, he waved to the other passengers on the plane and took a hard gulp of air. He didn't have the constitution to face his likely doom, so he instead fell backwards out of the plane. It was even worse. It was like watching the world escaping from him, the droning of the engines some sort of strange mockery, like a steady laugh. He turned to face his enemy, the tents. Everett had told him to wait for his speed to reach a constant state and then pull the cord. Bill couldn't tell what sort of speed he was going other than the fact that whatever speed it was was entirely too fast. Finally, Bill felt an ever so slight relent in his constant descent. His speed, while still ludicrous, seemed to have at least stopped increasing. He pulled the string and was promptly hit with what felt like the force of a pre-war freight train. His whole world came to a jolt, yanking him backwards. Even the wind itself seemed to briefly reverse directions, though his trademark hair remained unfazed. He drifted lazily towards the camp, using his free hand to steer the parachute as best as he could. His landing, thanks to a tight tug of both handles immediately prior to his touchdown, was nice, gentle, and directly on his feet. The parachute bunched up behind him. Some of the people around the camp had come out to see what the hubbub was about. Bill folded up the parachute and put it in a place where he thought it would be least offensive, since there was no real sign of a place to put trash in the camp. Opening his briefcase, he retrieved his hat, glasses, and pistol, putting each in its rightful place; the hat and glasses on his head and face, and the pistol in its holster, strapped around his shirt but under his jacket. He gave a general greeting and introduction to his onlookers, and then surveyed his surroundings before going to get some general info on the lay of the land and happenings in Bucket Town. ---- (finished and ready to be graded) |
|
William "Bill" Beauregard SPECIAL: 3 5 1 10 7 5 9 Level: 2 Karma: +50 EQUIPMENT Weaponry: .32 Revolver Armor: Pre-War Businesswear INVENTORY One traveling suitcase, currently empty. One comb. LOOKS 5'9'', dark brown hair, hazel eyes. Old-west-style mustache. Skin aglow with vitality and eyes alight with zeal. Excellent posture. | |
![]() |
|
| Zilabus | Sep 15 2009, 03:32 PM Post #10 |
|
Er'ry day I'm overseein'
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
Bare with me for a minute. Orion the free will grade this quest as part of a trail to be moderator. Don't worry about it though, it will work just like a normal grading, and I'll be here to quality control in the unlikely event that the grading is done poorly. |
|
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 | |
![]() |
|
| Orion The Free | Sep 15 2009, 04:55 PM Post #11 |
|
Tired Traveler
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
Ok I wish I had kept up with this so that I didn't have to read this is one setting. OK, well there were no spelling errors that I could see and no grammar errors as well. Now as for the story as a whole it is very well written and for the most part entertaining to read (I'm not to big on just talking, but fear not, it will not effect your grading). Now as for your reward...
...well considering you never actually took any item of merit except for the comb (which you didn't specify whether you left it there or took it with you so I just gave it to you) and there wasn't anybody to give you a reward for doing something, the comb is the only item you will recieve. Now due to the length, complexity, and reality of this I will grant you a Level-Up, Congratulations! Now, for helping the three "raiders: and Everett, I grant you a positive karma shift which may or may not be subject to change by Zilabus as I was unsure as how much to give you, but considering that you probably saved at least one person's life, I believe its good enough. |
![]() "What's that you see? A wasteland? No. What I see is the most beautiful thing in the world. I see a new beginning, a clean slate for humanity. A time to forget our past and begin again." Orion "The Free" Keagan Notable Features: Yellow Eyes, Duster, Large scar on left side of the face. The Count: 0 | |
![]() |
|
| Zilabus | Sep 15 2009, 05:46 PM Post #12 |
|
Er'ry day I'm overseein'
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
Orion did a good job grading, and his rewards are what you will recieve. Topic locked. |
|
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 | |
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · In the Wastes · Next Topic » |
| Theme: Zeta Original | Track Topic · E-mail Topic |
4:58 PM Jul 10
|




![]](http://z1.ifrm.com/static/1/pip_r.png)



4:58 PM Jul 10