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Schnee Corp Lawyer

Still not over Birthright's ending
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per day
  2. One post per day
Writing Levels
  1. Advanced
  2. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. Nonbinary
  4. Transgender
  5. Primarily Prefer Female
Genres
Modern, scifi, fantasy, le romance, really anything so long as the characters within are interesting
Killers, dreamers, thugs, soldiers, saints. A more disparate gathering of the highs and lows the West had to offer couldn't be found anywhere else, but they were all walking the same way. And whether they had the same goals or not, there were only two ends on their road together down the Sixty Six;

Flagstaff, or death.

Good luck.





If you're here you either know why or you need to leave. If you're just listing an NPC or someone who's too suss to lay out then feel free to only take chunks of the below




CHARACTER SHEET:

Mark put your picrews here

Name:

faction/employment/other vague categorization:

S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:

STR:
PER:
END:
CHA:
INT:
AGI:
LCK:


skills (4 major specializations, 2 minor specs, 1 skill you're proactively bad at):

Perks (Choose... 5? idk choose however many you want, I'm not a cop):

Starting equipment :

Mojave cred: (any of the NV sidequests your char completed)

brief(ish) background:





EXAMPLE SHEET


Name:
Maeve Donchev, AKA Ranger Donchev

faction/employment/other vague categorization:
NCR military

S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:

STR: 5
PER: 5
END: 4
CHA: 4
INT: 7
AGI: 6
LCK: 3


Skills:
Major: Guns, energy weapons, science, sneak
Minor: medicine, melee
Uh oh: Explosives

Perks :
Educated, sniper, living anatomy, certified tech, nerd rage

Starting equipment :
NCR Ranger combat armor
Plasma defender
Marksman's carbine
combat knife
NCR radio
First aid kit
Often has a sniper rifle/anti material rifle requisitioned for missions but isn't ever like carrying one around

Mojave cred: (any of the NV sidequests your char completed)
There Stands The Grass
Hard Luck Blues
That Lucky Old Sun
Oh Papa

brief(ish) background:

NCR born and raised, Maeve was a sharp child even when they were young. lucky enough to be born in the already civilized lands of the NCR, they had a drive to use that mind for good; they joined the followers at a young age, and was happy to learn and then help deduce with others the knowledge left behind from the old world, and how it could help mankind recover. When they learned of the efforts to spread to the Mojave, they were one of the first followers to join the push, eager to help somewhere less fortunate and stable. Their main focus was keeping the follower's equipment repaired and assisting with the study of any new tech they found out in the mojave, but also recieved basic medical training as there was never a point in time in Freeside that wasn't an 'All Hands On Deck' moment when it came to people alive. There was a group of fiends that kept hitting a pretty well traveled section of the road into Vegas, and after the tenth time the followers had a group of dead to half dead terrified civilians dragging themselves through their doors, Maeve decided that enough was enough and trekked out to find where the raids were coming from. Their lair found. Maeve returned to the followers and put forth what they saw as a reasonable plan to take on the encampment themselves; preventative medicine, as it were. But while the followers are not, by creed, pacifists, what Maeve was asking them to do simply wasn't what they could or would do. Frustrated, Maeve made their way to camp McCarren instead. The fiends they had found were ones NCR already had a bounty on, and they put forth a suggestion in turn. They couldn't spare enough men to take the compound themselves, but they were willing to preemptively pay out the bounty to someone who worked with the followers who was willing to draw blood. Maeve used the funds to hire mercenaries, and with some additional manpower from the NCR, helped lead a joint operation that cut that particular group of fiends out of the wasteland entirely.

A few weeks later, Maeve quit the followers, it now clear to them that sitting in a fort and fixing problems as they came was never going to fix the Mojave faster than it naturally decayed; that was going to take a little more force, a few more bullets. they enlisted in the NCR, and over the last half decade have worked their way up to ranger, leading dangerous salvage operations and missions against tech savvy foes like the Brotherhood of Steel or Enclave Remnants.​
 
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Name:
Sally
AKA Courier Two
AKA Slick Sal
AKA Veronica Hawthorne
AKA Jen Phillips
AKA Lieutenant Major General Janet Cram
AKA Prime Legionnaire Matthais
AKA First Lady Tabitha Kimball
AKA Big Sal
AKA Tammy Bitters
AKA I meant Timmy Biters?
AKA oh whatever just gimme the-
AKA Definitely not Tavi Bothers
AKA Mustang Sally


Faction/employment/other vague categorization:
Mojave Express


S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:
STR: 3
PER: 6
END: 4
CHA: 7
INT: 4
AGI: 6
LCK: 8 (+1)

Skills:
Major: Speech, Guns, Repair, Survival
Minor: Barter, Science
uh oh: unarmed

Perks:

Black Widow, Cherchez La Femme, Gunslinger, Terrifying presence, juryrig, weapon handling, Grim Reaper's Sprint, Light touch, mysterious stranger

Starting equipment:
Desperado hat
tinted sunglasses
merc charmer outfit
That Gun
.45 Autopistol
Sawed-off shotgun
Medicine Stick
whatever's on the nearest dead body

Mojave cred:
One For My Baby/I Forgot To Remember To Forget
Honest Hearts
Beyond the Beef
We Will All Go Together
Bye Bye Love
Oh Papa

Brief(ish) background:

Sally doesn't talk much about who she was before she got to the Mojave, but folks know her. A smooth talking gunslinger with twice the charm of most girls ten years younger, her first love is the Mojave Express and what it represents, the delivery of packages and letters a borderline sacred duty to her, and her second love is you, sugar~. When she's not delivering letters or pickup lines, she either does side work as a mercenary that's gotten her a rep that makes the delivery job easier, or repair work, putting her nimble fingers to work fixing things instead of breaking hearts with words or hollow-points. Despite her reputation, however, she prefers the soft touch, only opening the festivities in a gunfight if she absolutely has to or for the worst of the worst. Legion qualified.

Vignette:

Deep within the bowels of Vault 3, a door hissed as its pneumatic pistons pushed it open, exposing the rancid air of the bloodbath the rest of the vault was to the same exact smell plus dog piss. What was once meant to be a seed from which humanity could regrow had turned into a charnel house, and this room enthroned the architect: Motor-Runner. He slouched against his rusted seat, his expression hard to make out past his big-horn skull helm and the warpaint that adorned his face. Two people entered the room, a stiff backed, well built man dressed in a plain (mostly) white tee and combat slacks, glasses over his eyes, and a bandana shielding his face. Presumably from the smell. The other was a slight woman in a brown duster over a haphazardly buttoned shirt and a slanted cattleman's hat that had a sandy ponytail coming out from under it, also with a kerchief over her face, but she pulled it down as she entered as she held up and gently shook the case she was holding. The sound of glass brushing against itself filled the air. The only other occupants in the room were two massive, mangy dogs; one of them growled at the sound the case made, but the woman glanced over and gently booped its nose. The growl cut into garbled yip as the dog scooted backwards, confused at the gentle touch and how it happened before it had a chance to tear the finger off.

Motor-Runner gave the display a flat glare, unmoved.

"You're not my usual delivery."

The woman gave a soft smile and shrugged. "NCR ain't tied up with the legion anymore hun. Anders caught a bullet in a stop n' search, so Diane sent me. I know I ain't as cute as he was, but I promise-" she said, gently shaking the case one more time. "-the product ain't sufferin".

Motor-Runner drummed his fingers against the arm of his throne. "I don't like surprises."

The woman's smile didn't budge "Not even nice ones? Diane threw in a little extra this time. Knew you'd want a little good faith"

"Good faith, huh? ...Fine. But half price….. And you stay here." he eventually said.

The woman and the man shared a look, before she turned back, head tilted in askance. "Uh, pardon?"

"Diane knows better than to fuck up and not tell us she's sending some new bitch in here." Motor-Runner snarled. "So your boyfriend can bring the caps back, and tell Diane that she can send the next batch half priced too, or I can send her you in half.`"

The room was silent save for the crackle of the torches the room had as a light source. Eventually, the woman's face cracked into a thin smile.

"...fine. I'll stay. But, you full price on the goods."

Motor runner raised an eyebrow as he looked her over "That's the part you disagree on?"

"Its good product. Rather not screw my boss. I'm big on successful deliveries"

"Just because you might live doesn't mean there's any chance you're getting out of here unscathed. We don't get fresh meat often." Motor-Runner snarled.

"Sugar, you say that like it's a bad thing." the woman crooned. Finally Motor-Runner's grim facade cracked as he blinked. The woman's smile turned into a smolder as she took a step forward "Sometimes a girl wants more than some city softies. Sometimes she wants some blood and bruises."

"I never said-"

"-Oh honey, I saw your eyes when I walked in. Play it tough, sure, but don't play it cold." She finished crossing the room to the throne slowly lowered herself to straddle Motor-Runner's lap and laid a hand on his stomach "Not when I want it. Tell you what…" she murmured, her fingers starting to walk up his chest "How about… before you make a call on the price… me and you take a few hits for a test drive."

Motor-Runner had started to reach for the chainsaw beside his throne when the woman first started to sit, but something in her eyes held his hand, and instead it moved up to grip her hold her down against his hip, a half tooth, feral grin splitting his features. "...You're insane. You belong down here."

"Flattered, sugar." she leaned forward to whisper as her other hand set down the case and clicked open the latches. "But I like clean water too much for that. Promise though-" She continued as she leaned back and gently grabbed his chin to pull his mouth a little more open as she pulled out one of the case's special treats "-You're never forgetting this night"

Then she pushed the revolver she pulled from the case against the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger

—---------------------------------------------------


Hours Earlier

Sally was half napping in a chair with her feet up on the counter when the door to Freeside's Mojave Express office jangled as it was pushed open. She pushed her hat's brim slightly up with a grumble at her lost nap that got lost in delight when she saw who it was. "Hey Boonie!" She swung her legs off the counter as a soldier strode in and stood with one wrist in the other's hand on the other side. "What brings you outta the barracks? Surprised they're giving you any play time what with-"

"-Here on business, Sal." He cut her off, firm but quiet, almost guilty. The response knocked her off balance for a few seconds, but eventually she leaned against the counter with her chin resting in her hands.

"What kinda business?"

"Two kinds. You want the bad or the good first?" he asked

"Don't gotta ask, always bad first so the good don't go sour."

"Just as well, good's to help with the bad." he replied.

"..."

"..."

"Boone?"

He sighed. "Does the name Tabitha Kimball mean anything to you?"

Sally's face immediately scrunched up into a wince. "Ohhhhhhhhhkay. Shoot. First of all it wasn't anything hinky, I mean, its- None of that was anything serious-"

"You took seven hundred dollars from her bag ."

Sally started studying her fingernails, picking some dirt out from one. "I'm worth-"

"-Sal."

"Okay, so maybe that, might've happened, so what?" she snapped. "Kimballs suddenly can't afford 700? Democratic King n' Queen of the NCR?!"

Boone took his glasses off to rub at his eyes. "...Since when do you steal, Sal? You've never done that. Business that slow?"

"No, hun, you know I'm not a thief, that was money owed" she pressed, the judgement in Boone's voice getting a stab into her conscience. "Not to me, and I don't have it anymore; they promised the Followers that Freeside was gonna have so much more support than it's gettin, is all. That's the only reason I went there, promise, to give them a talkin' to on behalf a' Julie. Not often the big man himself is visitin, and well, he wasn't there, but Tabitha was- she heard 'bout that time I used her name, thought it was funny, we got talkin, and you know how that goes."

"I really don't."

"Yes you do" She said, physically brushing that comment off her arm like a gnat "but as fun as the talk was, she said some nasty things 'bout the 'dregs' she called in Freeside, and well, made me a bit mad, but I wasn't boutta pop the first lady a punch. So I just… did a good deed for her."

"Great. Well, 'her' good deed's got a bounty put on your head."

"Oh. Shit."

"So lets get to the good." Boone continued. "You have enough friends left in the NCR for what you did during the war that the bounty was short lived. With conditions."

She let out a long breath before she gave Boone a leery look"Being?"

"One. You get out of Vegas for the remainder of the Kimball's visit. Preferably longer."

She waggled her head back and forth with her lips pursed. Not that hard. Always work outta the city "Fair nuff."

"Two… You help with a different bounty. Still get paid for it, but they need what the colonel called 'a steady, unorthodox hand'"

That soured the look on her face. "You know I don't like that kinda work, Boone. Not someone else' trigger woman."

"I know" Boone said, his standard frown deepening "But I promise Sal, this guy's got it coming. You remember hearing the name Motor-Runner?"

That got a whistle out of her. "...Damn, yea. Those slavers we caught in Westside were sellin to him, yea? Some big wig fiend?"

He nodded. "Thats the one. Slaver, killer, rapist, kidnapper, poacher, whatever. He's got the whole list. He's holed up in a vault him and his gang cracked open and turned into a slaughter. We can't even get past the front door. They've been in there a while now sneaking raids out past our watch. Some of the brass want to just gas the place out, but…"

"...But slaver means slaves." Sally sighed. "...Fine, fine. I'll be your killer. But I won't enjoy it."

"I'm coming with you"

"Never in doubt, hun." She said as she pushed off the counter to kneel under it and press a few buttons on the gunsafe under it. "But just us two. I think I can get us in. Got a favor I'cn call in. Now, how fast can you assemble that rifle…."

—---------------------------------------

Now

Sally breathed in the gunsmoke wafting in the air, adrenaline filling the silence that followed the three cracks of thunder with the drumming of her heart. Motor-Runner was slouched back in his glorified chair, one hand limp against her chest in the last act from his monkey-brained thoughts that were now splattered against the back wall, his two pets in similar states on the floor.

Shoot. She hated lying to Boone.

"Time to get to work Sal!" he yelled, not caring about her faux pass as he was busy jamming one of the torches into the door's wheellock as shouts started to come from the other side. He was right, anyways.

Time to do the job.


She kicked the case to slide across the floor to him, a few glasses of Sunset saspirilla clinking together on top of a disassembled service rifle while she swung her coat off and started hacking into it with a knife she pulled off Motor-Runner's belt. Pieces of a .45 automatic were pulled from sewn patches and loops in the under arm, and the pair worked in silent tandem as bits of metal were clicked and latched together into tools of death. Both of them checked the ammo as they walked up to the door that was shaking from repeated hits on the other side. They gave each other one last nod, Sally unable to keep the grin off her face as she picked her hat up off the ground and took up position as Boone wrenched the torch out from the door.

The fiends on the other side saw it swing open to show Motor Runner's headless corpse slumped in its throne, but no one else. There were yells and a few gasps, and one stepped forward into the room with his machete raised

(0:27)Boone put a bullet into his head from behind the door at the same time Sally banked the grenade off the wall into the hallway.

Both turned the corner just after the explosion tore through the fiends. Sally sprinted ahead, diving through the door and over the mangled remains of a few enemies and coming up in a roll, putting a bullet into a fiend who'd used a comrade as a shield from the explosion, just as boone strode forward and let loose a burst of fire into a pair that had come down the stairs into their section of the vault from the commotion. Sally caught one of them before they fell, grunting under the heavier woman's weight as she pushed it up the stairs. But the girl'd been wearing nicer armor than most've em, and the metal caught immediate fire from the two at the top of the stairs. They were too tweaked out to do anything but keep firing, their bullets sparking like a grinder as boone slid in behind Sally and helped her push it up the stairs, till she found an opening to slide her revolver under the body's arm and put a bullet into the left assailant's leg. He groaned as he collapsed, his fire going wild and causing his partner to flinch.

By the time he looked back up, Sal's barrel was in his face.

(1:05)

No one immediatey shot at them and they could tell the yelling was more distant so, the pair used the brief lull to reload.

"Don't make slaver's like they used to" Sally commented as she spun the revolver's cylinder out

"Mmh" Was boone's only comment as he locked a new magazine in his gun

"Not that that's bad" she clarified as she clicked the last bullet in and flicked the cylinder back in place.

"Mh." Boone agreed as he pulled the slide and rechecked the sights after the push up the stairs.

"...I lied. I'm having fun" she sighed out, disappointed.

"I know." Boone said at some midpoint between exasperated and the closest he got to amused. His sentence was punctuated by Sally leveling her revolver at the sound of footsteps finallying making their way to them from the a hallway on the right.

(1:29)

The fiend didn't even get a chance to turn all the way towards them before her forehead imploded.

They strode with purpose in that direction; Boone swung the corner with his rifle at the ready and immediately mowed down a few hapless fiends armed with bats and golf clubs, while Sally stayed pressed against his back and flicked her gun at an opening door and blasted a Fiend's hand clean off and the laser rfile in his hand with it. Boone put three more down before he reached over his shoulder to tap Sally's head. They swung around in sync so she was facing the front, just in time for a man in full metal armor and a chainsaw to turn the corner. She didn't panic as he took a few steps forward or stop their own advance forward as Boone reloaded behind her.

The man roared and suddenly charged, bending his knee just enough that Sally could flick down and slip a round in between the plating. The battlecry turned into a scream as he collapsed, Sally kicking the saw to the side to dig into the wall as she walked over him with a chipper "road block!" called out. Boone finished reloading as he walked back over on top of the man as well and unloaded a burst into the back of his neck.


Outside, fiends were fleeing out the vault entrance half crazed and terrified at the sudden explosion of violence and screaming that hadn't stopped like it usually did. The gunfire got louder, and louder, and finally, it stopped.

Boone strode out into the sunlight with his head on a swivel, sally at his back once more. They did a full rotation, before finally boone called out "clear."

Sally let out a sigh of relief and full out slumped against Boon's back. Both were absolutely splattered with gore and viscera. Sally checked the pip-boy on her wrist with a frown.

"Damn. We were down there an hour??"

"Time flies when you're having fun" Boone observed

"Since when do you joke?"
she snarled before she stalked back into the vault for the slave's cages. "AT LEAST MAKE IT ACTUALLY FUNny..."

 
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Name:
Mia Alvarez

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faction/employment/other vague categorization:
Independent merc/bodyguard for hire

S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:
STR: 6 (10 with one arm)
PER: 5
END: 7
CHA: 2
INT: 4
AGI: 6
LCK: 7


Skills:

Major: Guns, Survival, Unarmed, Lockpick
Minor: Melee Weapons, Explosives
Shitty Perfomance: Speech

Perks:
Gunslinger, Strong Back, Quick Draw, Scrounger, Hunter, Piercing Strike, Shotgun Surgeon, Rad Resistance

Starting equipment:
Duster coat
Red bandana
Metal armor chestplate
10mm pistol
Hunting Shotgun
Thump-Thump
Trail Carbine
Bowie knife
Psycho
Jet
Stimpacks

Mojave cred:
Crazy, Crazy, Crazy
Ghost Town Gunfight
Three-Card Bounty
Come Fly With Me
Ant Misbehavin'
Heartache by the Number

Not So Brief(ish) background:
Taken from pushover parents at a young age by a gang of 80s raiders, she was "raised" in brutal raider fashion. Beaten, bullied, it was a tough time getting used to her new life, but self-preservation demanded it. Mia fell in line, adopted their ways, at first if only to avoid the worst of their treatment of her, but gradually, eventually, she just came around to believing it genuinely. Might makes right. Why struggle with having to deal with life in the wasteland like dumbass farmers, when you could just take what you want? Anyone tries to stand up to you, just gun them down. She lived for years like that. Known simply as Red back then, having been given that nickname by the crew because of her bandana, the one thing she had from left from her previous life.

She murdered her fair share of people in that life, and made no secret of enjoying it, countless times laughing about it later with the gang, hanging around a campfire.

Everything changed when one night, having thought they'd found more easy pickings...they got more than they bargained for. The homesteaders they targeted put up a hellish fight, and by the end, the small collection of 80s she had known were all dead. She was knocking on death's door too, having lost a whole damn arm in the fierce battle. Yet, even though the homesteaders had lost some of their own as well, they...they saved her life. Patched her up, helped her recover over a lengthy stretch of time. She just...couldn't comprehend why. Restrained and recovering as she was meant there wasn't really time for much else beyond thinking, and she had to do a lot of that.

So come one day, having nearly recovered fully, their watch over her got sloppy, and she managed to pocket a knife. Later that night, as the family slept, she cut herself free from her restraints. She was on her feet immediately, quietly sneaking over to the door of the family's bedroom. She lingered there for a time, so much so she wasn't even sure how long she stood there. Part of her screamed at her to barge in there, do her thing, get payback for the rest of the gang and paint the walls red. Her hand was clenched tight around the knife, but she didn't move. Instead, she stared at where her left arm used to be...and she realized she just couldn't do it.

Saying thank you wasn't something that was in her then, either, so she just ended up walking away. Middle of the night, she slipped out of their home, and got another surprise. Not only had she been saved by those homesteaders, but the rest of the gang...they had been buried. Unmarked graves, mind, since they didn't know the names, but the number of graves matched. She stood there for a moment in silence before turning on her heel. Twice now, she left a previous life behind.

It was especially rough living, for a one armed former raider trying to go straight, but she scraped by. Shitty odd jobs here and there for caps, tracking and hunting animals for food, learning how to cook now that she just wasn't taking food from the weak...it was more than difficult, but she refused to give up. She kept moving across the Mojave, and kept her ear to the ground, and after years like this, the rumor mill managed to pique her interest. Talk of somebody who could help her with her unique problem...she hardly even hesitated.

Same shit as everywhere else, favor for a favor and all that...or then some in this case, but in the end, she managed to secure what she wanted. Her arm, restored, in a sense. Tech like that though, obviously it presented as a pretty target for any brazen opportunist. Necessitated that she cover up as much as she can with her duster and gloves, and that she didn't linger in one place for too long. Suited her, because with both arms, shitty odd jobs were a thing of the past. She settled into work as a gun for hire, and that's what brought her to New Vegas.​
 
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Name:
Loulou Arceneaux aka The Starry-Eyed Traveler

Faction/employment/other vague categorization:

Typically freelance but currently doing work for the NCR! Someone's gotta get those propaganda-I mean proud pictures to show our boys and girls of the New Californian Republic in the best light!

S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:
STR: 1
PER: 6
END: 2
CHA: 6
INT: 3
AGI: 6
LCK: 4

Skills:
Major:
Speech, Throwing, Survival, Lockpick
Minor: Traps, Melee Weapons
uh oh: unarmed!

Perks:
Black Widow, Cherchez La Femme, Heave, Ho!, Travel Light!, Ferocious Loyalty!, Bloody Mess!, Purifier!

Starting equipment:
Bandana
Biker goggles
Vault 21 outfit (Sarah convinced her to buy it from the Giftshop....)/She also wears a [PRESS] badge.

Hunting Rifle
Codec R9000l
Machete
Jet (She tries to keep it on the downlow/doesn't like using it in front of others.)
Gecko meat (for Mojo)


Mojave cred:

-
Wang Dang Atomic Tango
-Classic Inspiration!
-Talent Pool
-Gland for Some Home Cooking
-Maud's Muggers
-Honest Hearts


Brief(ish) background:

Much like how The Chosen One from Fallout 2 was a tribal-turned-hero of the Wasteland, Loulou is a tribal fresh from the remains of New Orleans. Living within her tribe was comforting for some time but upon turning eighteen? She felt suffocated!

She had to get out there! Stretch her wings and see what the hell she could get up to! Maybe she'd even be able to HELP some people! Loulou would have a personal goal of trying to snap pictures of every creature she encounters in her travels and eventually publish her pictures. Some of the pre-war books said people used to get awards for photography. One book she'd found inside a ravaged library had all kinds of pictures of insects & arachnids and even had a dead bug preserved in some kind of small plastic box, no bigger than a standalone eraser for a pencil. She keeps the bug on her person as some kind of morbid good luck charm.

Loulou's prized possession is the necklace given to her by her grandma. Merchants have said that just by looking at it, it's probably worth a good number of caps. Some less than stellar individuals even tried to take it by force. That's how Loulou got the scar across her forehead. A raider smashed her in the face with a hammer. Taking a hit of Jet and Med-X, Loulou managed to turn the tables on the bastards but the one who scarred her managed to run off, terrified out of his wits at the screaming, drug-addled, tribal screaming her lungs out and waving a bloodsoaked shishkebab around, seemingly ignorant of the red streaks running down her face and making quite the puddle at her feet.

She shambled her way into the nearest town and was treated before infection could set in. During the recovery process, she'd developed a Med-X addiction but ultimately came out OK! Apart from a nasty star-shaped scar. Not wanting to let the incident ruin her upbeat demeanor, Loulou got piercings on either side of the scar, an embarrassing addiction to Jet, and continued her adventures with Mojo at her side!


Vignette:​

"Wow! Zion...Never did I think I'd see it with my own eyes, no sir!"

It was a loooong way from the bayou for sure. Whether it was more dangerous had yet to be seen.

Having heard of the opportunity, Loulou jumped on it quicker than a Bloatfly on brahmin shit!

Happy Trails Caravan hadn't been doing too great, no, that was putting it lightly. If you wanted to be as blunt as possible and Loulou often believed that honesty was the best policy: if this caravan went south then that their caravan may as well have put it's head between it's proverbial legs and kissed it's ass goodbye! Now while Loulou wasn't one to sniff at someone else's misfortune, all that caravan stuff was completely secondary to why she'd really agreed to come along. She'd never ever been to Zion! Who knows what kinda animals they'd had out there?? What if she managed to discover a new species?? Oh if she wasn't the only photographer that she knew of, she'd probably gets all kinda praise and appreciation!

"I can see it now, Mojo! My name up in lights on dey Strip! Cardboard cutout of you and me and the creatures I've helped document to the entire Wasteland!" Loulou exclaimed, her eyes, both of which differed from a bright red and a more subdued blue, shining with excitement. Pulling the star shaped badge, she'd gotten pinned to her Vault 21 suit (long story there. She'd originally gone there to try and take some pictures, maybe even smoothtalk the pretty lady givin the tour into perhaps working out some kind of co-publishing deal? If Loulou's book of Wasteland Wildlife ever got published, Vault 21 would be THE place to pick up a copy! In the end she ended up buying some cheap Giftshop junk, bought a Vault suit, slept with Sarah, and then went about her business.) She breathed on the badge and wiped at it with her sleeve. Anything to try and get it glistening versus when she'd found it amid some ruins, she'd been trying to quietly follow some Radscorpions through.

"Sreeeck...." Mojo rumbled as it dug little trails in the dirt with it's two front claws. Mojo was Loulou's beloved pig rat. Somewhat pig, somewhat rat. All ugly to the casual observer. But to Loulou, he was her messy noisy little angel. A picture of her holding him as a baby was one of her most prized possessions. "Okay, okay, there were some setbacks. But I'm lookin towards the future here, Mojo! Can't stay stuck twiddling my thumbs in the past, no?" Reaching down she pet her little critter behind his right ear earning a satisfied oink from the creature. The other members of the group didn't seem to mind Loulou and her...interesting choice in pet. So long as she kept an eye on it and it didn't make a mess where it wasn't supposed to, what was the harm?

"Uhhh, heeeeeey. Like, I'm not some sorta pussy or anything who's scared about 'ooooough you gotta wash your hands, you gotta wash your hands' but are we REALLY gonna let this little oinker come with us?? Don't those little motherfuckers crawl in the DIRT?? That's where like worms live and shit, dude! Irradiated worms! I mean has he been tested?? What if he bites one of us and we get Mad Rat Pig disease?? I, erm, mean if YOU guys get it. I'm immune to it. Naturally of course, no vaccines or anything for me. Nope!" You know how every group seemed to eventually include a person that inevitably got labeled as the asshole of the bunch? Loulou was optimistic that everyone would agree Ricky fit the bill.

Loulou's eyes narrowed and she immediately turned on a dime, jabbing a defiant finger right in Ricky's face. "He's a PIG. RAT. Crawlin and burrowin is what they DO! You gotta problem with Mojo 'den you got one with me! He ain't got no more diseases than you do, I'm willin to bet caps on it." Using her free hand to reach down and pet Mojo across the back, she huffed. "Mojo ain't gonna bother noone no how. If him bein here is some kinda dealbreaker then I'll go because ain't no adventure worth cuttin out my boy."

"Easy. Ricky, why don't you just lay off? I ain't the biggest fan of rodents. Whether they're mice, rats, MOLErats, whatever. But so long as he's not pissing or shitting on my belongings, I could care less." Stella, a woman a bit older than Loulou and one that carried the energy of 'been there done that, sick of this shit' in spade, called out. Ricky rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. "Okay, okay, two vaginas against one dick. I get it. If I'd known this was gonna be a gangbang, I would have prepared more! Woo!"

*beat*


"I mean not that I'm not ALWAYS prepared to get it on when the getting on needs to get ON, you feel me?? Huh??"
"Shut up! Merci!"

The two mercenaries that'd been hired on for the expedition simply didn't acknowledge the commotion. As far as they knew, they were just paid to stand at the ready and shoot whoever needed shooting. Getting mixed up in stupid banter and minute bullshit wasn't part of the contract.
"Okay, you three. How about we save our energy for the travels ahead and not on getting into it with each other. You guys think you can do that?" Jeb was the one in charge of the whole shebang. Loulou thought he was polite enough and found his honesty rather refreshing. Happy Trails Caravan was f-u-c-k-e-d if this didn't work out and he'd have to carry the blame for it. "Ricky, that Pipboy of yours working?"

Caught off guard by the sudden question, Ricky stammered before looking down at his Pipboy and vigorously nodding his head. "O-Oh yeah! Yep! The Pimpboy is working out juuuust fine! Yeah, this baby is working like a treat! Hell, maybe I'll map out the whole goddamn place when we get there. Find the highest spot and name it...Ricky's mountain." Special emphasis was put on the last two words with Ricky slowly holding his arms off to the side.

Nobody seemed to be impressed.


"Ah geez, fuck you guys. It was a good one!"

"Good what, exactly?" Stella chimed in.

"Oh fuuuuuuck all the way off, Stella!" While the two traded barbs, Loulou stepped a bit closer to Ricky and eyed up his Pipboy. She was sure that the other lady in the group, a courier, had sussed it out before anyone else. But, Loulou had caught on just as well. Leaning in and lowering her voice just enough so that only Ricky could hear her, she went for it. "That 'pimpboy' is broken. The reboot button's broken off and the screen's fried. That thing is well and truly cooked."

"What?? Are you crazy or just blind? It's working just right. See? It's just stuck in, uhhh...what do they call it? Developer mode! Watch the light will come on just like that." He held his arm out.

Nothing happened.

"Oh for fuck's sake...c'mon!" He gave it a slap.
The light came on.

"Aha! See?"
The light flickered and died. Likely permanently with the poor condition it was in.

"Alright, alright. Okay so it's not working all that great. What the hell is your damage, lady?? You really gonna go and snitch on me to Jeb? I need this job." Loulou smiled and gave Ricky a subtle but still semi forceful nudge in the ribs. "Well, the way I see it, you don't seem to got too many friends here, mon ami. Say I go bend Jeb's ear and tell him you're full of crap and so is your Pipboy..." Ricky started to sweat and he muttered a quick stream of curses. "Alright, jesus christ, what do you want from me?"


"An apology. That's all."
"...Seriously? All that threatening build up and you just want me to tell you I'm sorry?"
"No. Not to me..." She reached down and picked up Mojo. "Him."

"...Eugh." As affable as Loulou generally tried to be, even the writer couldn't deny that Mojo was a frightful little thing. Vermin that Loulou had taken a special affection for. "You can't be fuckin serious?"

"Deadly. Say it or I tell Jeb and you're outta here."
"....oh for fuck's sake. Ok. I'm sorry, Rojo. There. Happy?"
"It's Mojo. Again."

"Ugh! Okay, OKAY! I'm sorry, Mojo! There!"

Loulou smiled. "Thank you.~"

"Yeah, yeah.." Ricky went to wave Loulou off only to take a second glance at Mojo nestled in her arms. "...You know at a certain angle, he's not so-"

"SKREEEEEEEK!" Mojo bared his teeth, saliva dripping down his incisors and spittle landing on Ricky's vault suit.

"AHHH!" Loulou was sure that if Ricky had jumped any higher, he'd have hit his head off the ceiling.

"Fuck! Keep that THING away from me!" Ricky screamed as he moved to put some space between him....and just about everybody else.


"Good boy, Mojo..~"

Laughs were had, Jeb shook his head in frustration and yelled for everyone to finish their preperations.

Things would get a lot less humorous when the group actually got to Zion....


~~~


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Name:
Dominik Potts.

Ex-Knight of the Mojave Chapter of the Brotherhood Of Steel


Faction/employment/other vague categorization:
Formerly a Brotherhood knight. Father was a senior knight/mother was a squire.

Left the organization and with extreme reluctance has tried to distance themselves from the Brotherhood. If only to try and avoid being arrested/prosecuted as a war criminal by the NCR military.

Tries to earn their caps as a mercenary for hire these days.


S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:
STR: 6
PER: 2
END: 4
CHA: 4
INT: 4
AGI: 7
LCK: 1​

Skills:
Major:
Melee Weapons, Energy Weapons, Repair, Survival
Minor: Speech. Science
uh oh: Gambling (They should not be allowed anywhere near a casino table. They once lost a whole month's worth of income and had to sleep on a dirty sleeping bag on the Freeside sidewalk until they received caps from their next job.)

Perks:
Gunslinger, Terrifying presence, juryrig, weapon handling, Scribe Counter, Bloody Mess!, Spray and Pray, Laser Commander​

Starting equipment:
Breathing mask

Bounty Hunter duster (Work outfit)

Brahmin-skin outfit (Casual)
Power Fist
AER9 Laser Rifle with beam splitter mod


Laster Pistol
Med-X
Stimpak(x4)
Mojave cred:
-Bleed Me Dry
-Claws Out
-You gotta break out a few eggs
-Still in the Dark
Cleared out Ruby Hill Mine
-Playing on the Old Joanna
-Flogging a Dead Corpse
-Fight Night
-A Pair of Dead Desperados 1 and 2
-A team of Moronic Mercenaries
Brief(ish) background:
Dominik was born in the Mojave chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel as were the majority of it's members. Their father was a senior knight and their mother was a 'lowly' squire. The relationship, while not openly criticized due to their father's position and authority, was seen as uneasy and dissonant due to the severe power imbalance. Dominik was constantly at odds with their father. Having to work harder, day in day out, to even try and get their parent's time of day.

Dominik's relationship with their father only grew worse after their mother passed. Cazador poisoning. One might have assumed such a loss may have brought the remaining family closer together.

They'd be quite wrong.

Dominik's father constantly harped on how his wife's coddling had left Dominik(who their father refused to see as anything other than his daughter) weak and if they didn't shape up? It'd be not only an embarrassment to themselves but to the whole bloodline. Dominik didn't have much in the way of friends or shoulders to cry on, proverbial or otherwise. A familiar scribe was always willing to lend an ear every now and again though. Usually after a day of training lead to Dominik's father berating them over something either entirely inconsequential or out of their control altogether. Even after becoming a knight themselves, their father simply couldn't be pleased in any way that mattered.

The last time Dominik would ever see their father would be during the battle with the NCR that left Hidden Valley devastated. They refused to accept the reports at first, believing them to be mere rumors but as news came out after the dust had cleared, their father had fled when it seemed the tide was turning against the Brotherhood. Dominik couldn't help but find a small nugget of bemusement in it all.

For as much as their father preached and bellowed about the Brotherhood's goals and virtues, he ran like a coward in the face of a real existential threat to the group's existence. As for Dominik themselves? They've with extreme reluctance given up the Brotherhood way of life, managing to avoid being scooped up or noted as causing a scene by NCR forces. After all, living to see another day on their own terms even if it meant casting aside much, certainly beat out being treated as a prisoner of war by a group that saw you as psychotic cultists hoarding tech all for themselves.

Not a day went by that they didn't think of putting their power armor on again.

…But not anytime soon. Too risky.

Too many bad memories.


~~~




Name:

'Pal'/Alec Moore

Plant #1960/'Seymour'


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faction/employment/other vague categorization:

Former scientist/contractor that worked for the NCR

Currently?

Trying to be a bodyguard. Less risk of having to possibly kill people than a mercenary/bounty hunter. Or so he's been told anyway.

S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:

STR: 7
PER: 5
END: 6
CHA: 1
INT: 2
AGI: 3
LCK: 4

Skills:
Major: Survival, Unarmed, Repair. Lockpick
Minor: Melee Weapons, Science
Shitty Perfomance: Speech
Perks:
Strong Back, Rad Child, Gunslinger, Lead Belly, Stonewall, Super Slam!, Ghastly Scavenger, Cannibal, Rad Resistance

Starting equipment:
Field Hand outfit
9mm pistol
Dynamite
Baseball Bat
Straight razor
Iguana on a Stick
Gecko Meat
Radscorpion meat
Purified Water(x10)
Healing powder
Mojave cred:
-Back in the Saddle
-By a Campfire on the Trail
-A Valuable Lesson
-Debt Collector
-Crazy, Crazy, Crazy
-High Times
-Legend of the Star( this one really got him upset : ( )
-Unfriendly Persuasion
Not So Brief(ish) background:

Alec Moore was little more than a humble scientist. As a young boy he'd been utterly fascinated by plantlife and how while humanity struggled and the wasteland was amuck with all sorts of mutated creatures and beasts, that plant life still seemed to be carrying on as best as it could. So when the call came that the NCR was looking for scientists to investigate Vault 22, accompanied by armed soldiers of course, he jumped at the call. After all, the possibilities were endless if they somehow managed to weaponize these plants and their spores. Chemical warfare. If lunatics like the Legion and your typical Fiends/raiders thought radiation was bad? Wait until they had spores spreading across their camps like wildfire. Infecting everyone of them and turning them into mindless feral creatures. Every scientist was assigned a specific plant to maintain/look after.

Plant#1960 was subject to all sorts of tests.

How it responded to extreme cold, to extreme heat. How it'd react to consuming meat, irradiated or otherwise. As the tests drew on and on, Alec began to develop something of a twisted fascination with the flora. He spoke to it as though it were a person. Helped the time go by faster in his opinion. When you were cooped up in your lab with armed guards standing outside, the mind tended to wander. He eventually ended up giving the plant the nickname of 'Seymour.' Named after his childhood best friend. A real nebbish fellow. He died while Alec was still a teenager.

"Wasn't surprising. No. Someone like Seymour was never meant to survive out here."

It all came to a head when Alec came in to do his usual diagnostics on 'Seymour's condition. To see if any of the external stimuli that the plant had been subjected to had changed it in any noticeable way. Around this same time, Alec began to complain of a slight cough and an irritated throat. He chalked it up to mere allergies but the truth was far worse than he could have ever imagined. 'Seymour' had let go one of it's spores and infected Alan. The plant that'd been studied like a hawk had placed part of itself inside Alec's body, tampering with his own consciousness. As days turned into weeks, the symptoms only grew worse and even worse still? None of the medical staff could understand what was happening before their very eyes even as Alec started to lose himself to the parasitic spore infecting not only his body but his very mind itself.

"Well, uhm, Alec. I don't know how to put this."

"*cough cough* "W-What do you mean, doctor...?"

"...It's just that the results I'm seeing don't make any kind of sense."

"Could you-*wheeze* *cough cough* be a little more specific...?"

"Well. You have no pupillary response. Your blood pressure is 0/0. I'm not picking up anything on my equipment. No heartbeat, pulse, anything. Really, it's truly baffling."

"So what are you saying?!"

"Well, technically....You're not alive."

"You're saying I'm dead?!"

"No! No, heavens sake, calm yourself, Alec! I didn't mean you were ACTUALLY dead. Dead people don't get up and talk."

The rest of the conversation didn't make Alec feel any better. Despite his pleas for more tests and questioning if the equipment was faulty, Alec was escorted out of the room with little more than a bag of chems and advised to think postiviely. The chems did absolutely nothing or at least Alec felt like they didn't. The doctor was a fool. He just didn't care. Alec was just a contractor! If he keeled over then great! They wouldn't have to pay him the rest of what he was owed! He was already suspended while the bureaucrats tried to sort out 'his incident report.' But he didn't want to just go home and kick his feet up and wait to get worse.

Truthfully, it was starting to get harder and harder to think. He started feeling this irritating urge, constantly gnawing at the back of his head. This almost insatiable hunger! He looked at his former coworkers, not as fellow men and women but...Food! It was absolutely bizarre. How could a simple ilness have caused all this?! He had to get back to his lab. He had to..

There were arguments of course. He wasn't supposed to be back on the premises until everything was straightened out. How the bigwigs expected any kind of update after he'd already been told that he was more or less 'literally dead', he wasn't too sure. But aside from the craving for fresh meat, he also had a dire need to drink some nice, cool, water. The water seemed to clear his mind and let him collect his thoughts. It was refreshing...

Pushing his way into the lab, he made up some excuse. He had to get some papers and then he'd be on his way. In truth he was coming back to try and take 'Seymour' and be on his way. Before they reassigned the plant to another scientist. If he managed to take the plant than he could use it as leverage. Take it to a small town like Goodsprings. Have it grow and multiply. Spread it's spores. They'd have to take him seriously then. They'd have no choice but to find someone, anyone, who could help him...

Finding Seymour was the easy part.

It was everything else that felt impossible.

He was breaking out into a terrible fever. His skin had grown palid, like that of a corpses and his whole body ached. If one were to lift up his shirt, they'd see what appeared to be leaves spreading across his bare skin. As though a plant were taking root inside him. "We're going to get out of here, Seymour..." He muttered as he knelt down beside the table where the plant 'stared' at him curiously. There'd been a couple of injuries with the plants attacking some of their researchers. Nothing as serious as Alec's case but unlike the other plants, 'Seymour' didn't seem hostile towards him whatsoever.

"We're...we're going to....to...."

*drip*

Alec and 'Seymour' both glanced down.

A splotch of bright green 'blood' lay on the ground at Alec's feet.

"No...."

"Dr. Moore? Is everything alright in there?"

He could hear the doorknob jiggling. He'd locked the door behind him and kept his gun hidden by his waistband. Just in case any of the guards suspected he was up to something. Guess he'd taken too long. His eyes started to close and he drifted off. Not knowing that at this very moment, Alec Moore was gone. He died in that labratory and what remained was something entirely new. A part of the plant that Alec had cared so much about. Stuck inside this strange new body that was totally unfamiliar to it. Having arms, legs, eyes?? It was all completely foreign.

People spoke. The plant understood none of it. Alec had been found collapsed in his lab and given that they couldn't simply declare him deceased as he was still wide-awake, looking around the room, if non-responsive verbally. They decided to simply dissolve their contract with him, gave what remained of his pay, and sent him on his way. The guards that lead Alec to the front of the Vault were a bit concerned by how he kept tripping every two steps and walked as though it was his first time ever using his legs.

"You, uh, ok doc?"

"Mrm...ffff...yyyyyessss?"

What had it just done? Those sounds it'd made?

"Yes.....yesyesyesyes....yesssss...yyyyyyyyy....eeeeeeeee.....sssss" The plant sounded out each part of the word like a newborn infant trying to speak.

"Ok, he's starting to creep me out. This whole place is creepy as fuck." "Yeah...hey, look, he's wandering off." "Thank fuck. One last thing we gotta worry about."

We'll just have to see about that...


Vignette:



Walking with legs was difficult.

As was using arms to push oneself back up.


The plant that'd taken over Alec's body was completely out of it's depth. Just days prior it'd been content to feast on whatever warm meat it was given. If it's feelings towards the multitude of tests that Alec subjected it could be described, however? It'd probably be something along the lines of unyielding rage. It would have been fine just...existing. Find somewhere comfortable to stand (though it was preferable to just sitting. It's prior existence had been confined to a container after all.) and just exist. But after walking in circles for the umpteenth time in front of Vault 22, the guards at the entrance finally took pity on the deranged scientist they'd been asked to make sure was safely removed from the premises, urgently at this point.

"Hey, Doc? Uh? Where do you live?"

"Lllllll-iiiiiiiii-vvvvvvvvvvvvv-eeeee? Liiiiiveeeeeee....Live. Live?"

The two guards looked at each other.

"Yeah. Y'know what town are you staying at? An apartment? Got a hotel room or...? Any kind of home. We just wanna make sure you get there, ok. You seem a bit off is all..."

The plant used Alec's right hand to scratch it's-his-face. It still needed time to try and get used to running a human body. Things were far simpler when it was confined to just a mouth, stem, and leaves. But at the mention of 'home', the plant dug through the synapses of Alec's brain to see if it could find anything plausibly relevant. While messing around they saw images of Alec-the person who's body it'd taken over. The plant was now seeing it's stolen face for the first time-talking to someone who was likely the landlord of the apartment complex Alec was staying at over in Westside. Wasn't exactly the Ritz and the plant sensed some slight hostility that for someone who'd been contracted by the NCR, they could have paid for much better accommodations. Still, the plant listened in and tried to pick up any pertinent information.


"Allllleeeeeeecccc livessss at x(whatever address)"

"Westside, huh? Okay, we'll get you a transport down there-Hey, what the hell? Did you just say 'Alec' as in like you're talking in the third person? What's up with that?"

The plant sensed a change in the two men. Their body posture had stiffened. Had it said something wrong, done something wrong? Was it putting them on guard with how it was speaking? Having a tongue was just a new experience, let alone being able to actually speak. The plant couldn't help but be a little curious. The plant shook Alec's left hand franticaly as it did it's best to relax Alec's facial muscles so he seemed less threatening. In the end it just looked like the scientist was baring his teeth like a dog. "Sorry....Just messing around. Tough day at the office. Hahahahahahaha." The laughter was incredibly awkward and forced. But it still seemed to get the other two humans to relax. "...Yeah, we call those Mondays. Okay, Professor Moore. Just go wait down the hill and we'll get you situated."

"Okey dokey."

"..."

The plant quickly did an about face and trudged off as best as it could using Alec's legs down the hill, brushing past all the flora in it's way. Eventually, it'd get transported back to the one known as Alec's apartment. Now the question remained: how the hell did it move across these strange jutting structures otherwise known as stairs to a regular person and not plant invading a human corpse. "One...Step..." The plant reached out and gripped onto the handrail as tightly as it could. Unaware that it was slightly warping/bending the metal in the process. Also, it was much less walking up the stairs and more dragging it's feet up, literally one step at a time, clipping it's ankles every time. People walking up and down the stairs watched, staring out the corner of their eyes. Had that Alec guy always been that pale? Or that strong, jesus, he'd left a divot in the handrail!

"Urgh....Need....water..."

Shambling through the hallway once he'd finally reached Alec's floor, the Plant made his way over to the door in it's-Alec's-memories. It reached down and jiggled the handle. The door was locked. The body's face scrunched up in something vaguely resembling confusion. This was the right door was it not? So what was the issue? Patting the body down, the plant found a key and smiled as it slipped it into the lock and the door popped open! There wasn't much to behold in Alec's room. There was a bed, a radio, a small fridge, a fan that sat on his kitchen table and a nightstand that seemed to be full to bursting with papers and folders. The one driving Alec's body didn't care about any of that. It was focused on one thing. Hustling it's stolen ass over to the kitchen sink, it fumbled around with the handles until water came out. Holding it's head awkwardly under the faucet, cool water soaked the hair and satiated the Plant's thirst, for now anyway.

It left the water running as it moved over to the bed. The memories showed that this was where Alec laid down. But for what purpose? The plant couldn't really surmise beyond perhaps being the best place to conserve the most energy. All one had to do was lay down. It...Took a bit of effort or so but it managed it, laying flat on it's stolen back and looking up at the ceiling. This was an angle of view that the plant never could have considered before. Blind, deaf, and only able to sense it's prey through vibrations alone. Having visual and auditory senses was incomprehensible. But as the plant clasped it's ill begotten hands over it's chest, it looked over in the direction of the nightstand. Reaching over it attempted as it had with the door to jiggle the handle.

The nightstand's top drawer didn't budge.

"Grrr..."

*SHRRRRIK-CRRRIK-CRACK*

The drawer was open and the bracket it'd been sitting in was completely mangled. Dozens of folders in manilla envelopes landed on the bed beside the plant. Well, it's instincts were telling it to try and expand itself beyond just Alec's body. While it's original body was still somewhere in Vault 22, it could really make a mess of things if it spread the spores across the Mojave. But to do that before it'd even fully got a grasp on what trying to pose as a person even meant? Would be really stupid. So it looked at one of the envelopes and the marker written on it.

[EARLY DAYS]

...Maybe for now it'd just look.

And sit here....

....And drink water...

Time passed and the plant had occupied itself by reading through Alec's papers. Most of them were nothing too interesting. Just personal papers that Alec had kept put away from his childhood/teenage years and so on. Stuff that'd probably only get a blurb in the memories. None of it really interested the plant. It wanted to see if there was anything about it in here. Something that maybe it couldn't find through cycling through the human known as Alec's brainfolds? Only pausing occasionally to get up and drink from the sink which had been running for the last couple of days and had left a good chunk of the room soaked.

So engrossed was the plant that it didn't even notice or acknowledge the loud knocking and yelling at the human Alec's door.

"HEY! HEY, OPEN UP!!! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE, MOORE!! WHAT I DON'T KNOW IS IF YOU'RE ALIVE!!" The plant frowned using Alec's mouth and tossed the body halfway off the bed. The yelling made it hard to focus. The other person had to stop yelling. Making it's way over to the door, the plant pulled open the door with a casual demeanor. "Hello....?"

"Moore! What's going on, man?! You're letting water leak out into the hallway! The other tenants have been bitching up a storm-eugh. Did you spell some kinda test tubes or whatever in there?? You smell like a funeral home." It was true in some sense. The plant's natural biology was exuding chemicals to try and preserve it's vessal. To the common layman this would smell like formaldehyde/stuff a coroner might use to preserve a body for viewing. 'Alec' shook his head very eenrgetically to the side, back and forht. "Uhrmm....nope. No...No spills. Just water. Want some?"

"No! You know, I was debating giving you your deposit of 200 caps back but with this? 200 caps is gonna barely cover getting the water outta here! On top of all this other crap, I came here to give you this." The yelling person who appeared to be a man of younger age than the human called Alec handed over a piece of paper. The words may as well have meant nothing to 'Alec.' "What does this mean?"

"It means I want you gone."

"Gone? But I'm home."

"Not anymore. You haven't paid rent in months."

"R..." 'Alec' paused as it tried to dig through the crevices of the memory banks to try and figure out what word meant. Apparently the Enseearee(the ones who told the human named Alec to do things, like the things it did to Plant#1960) had been supposed to be paying Alec's rent for him. What had changed the plant wondered? "..NCR was supposed to pay you..." The memories also said that this was their landlord.

The memories were mostly negative.

"Yeah, and they were. They'd send a courier out to drop off the envelopes filled with caps while you were off doing your weird science shit. But then they stopped and y'know what? I did a little inquiry into why and you know what I heard?"

"No." Said completely serious.

"They told me at first that you'd been put on leave and then after I did some more digging? I learned that you'd been let go and that's why you're back here in the first goddamned place!"

"Oh."

"Oh?? Do you think 'oh' is gonna cover the water damage and replacing all the furniture you've likely ruined in there? Oh I should have listened to my mother when she said not to rent to you but-" The little man kept going on and on and on. It was starting to annoy the plant so it turned to walk back inside. It had gotten the feeling that eviction was bad but the man seemed like no physical threat. He could not make this one move by force. "Hey! Dipshit! Where do you think you're going?! I'm still talking to you!" The little man shook his head and reached for something in his pocket. A weapon perhaps? 'Alec's right hand balled up into a fist as he turned around...

"You know I've been going through a LOT of stress lately and assholes like you don't make it ANY easier. Why if I had a smoke for every-" There was a inhuman screech and just a split second after the landlord had flicked his lighter did the plant turn hostile. Looming over the landlord and grabbing the hand that held the lighter. "FIRE!!! FIRE HURTS!!!! I'LL NOT BE HURT BY IT AGAIN! NOT EVER!!" The landlord looked absolutely terrified. Moore was a weird guy but this strength felt like being caught in a vice. "J-Jesus, Moore! Get a grip on yourself!! You're breaking my hand here!!"

"Get a grip...?"

That was a good idea.

The plant grabbed the landlord by the throat and picked him up off his feet with such ease you'd think it was a kitten. "The human known as Alec NEVER liked you....I don't like you either.....Not...at....alll...."

"A-Alec, what the fuck-put me down-Oh jesus-"

"GRRRRRRR!!!"

NO FIRE!!!

"AAHHHHHHH!!!"

The plant threw the landlord down the stairs. He rolled down the stairs and crashed into the wall with a sickening crack. Then everything seemed to go still and the plant tried to recall it's vines that'd been snaking their way up through Alec's sleeves. The fire was gone for now. But it seemed as though they'd made more of a mess. Staggering down the steps, the Plant tried to crack the landlord's neck in place. Loudly too but no matter how they bent it, pulled it, bopped it. The little screaming man was dead. Which the plant knew that other humans didn't like that. The one known as Alec seemed upset when he'd learned he'd been infected.

"Uh oh...."

He couldn't stay here anymore. He had to find somewhere else. Another 'Home.'

But he couldn't just go without...What did the little man call it? Caps? Maybe he had some. Reaching down, the Plant pulled out a couple of envelopes of what it assumed were the caps-in reality they were indeed the other tenant's rent-and awkwardly placed them inside Alec's jacket. People were going to come walking up the stairs and see him so he had to move the body. Thankfully, there was a window right nearby. Grabbing the fresh body, the plant got a running start and-

*CRASH*

"WHAT THE HELL!!?' "OH MY GOD!!"

The landlord's mangled body fell two stories down. Hopefully that'd buy some time. Humans got scared easily. It had to grab a couple of things from Alec's room and then go. Ambling up the stairs as fast as it could go, it thought back to the convo it'd had with the escort who'd lead him back to Home.

"What...other...homes are there?"

"Uh, like settlements? Towns?"

"...yessss..."

"Well, I'm from Goodsprings personally. It's a bit more to the southwest and not a whole lot going on, even nowadays. But if you want nice easy quiet living, I'd say go ahead and go there. Why?"

"oh....Just wondering...."

"Uh-huh. Well, hey, good luck with everything, pal."

"....Pal?? I'm alec."

"....Huh? No, I didn't mean-It's like buddy, guy, dude. A term of endearment."

"...Pal."

"Yeah."

"Pal...."

"....yes."

It was an awkward ride home for the guard. But it changed the plant's life forever.

As he grabbed what he felt he needed(water bottles falling out from under his arms), he tried to move past the quickly growing crowd. The guard had mentioned a couple of Homes to him. Goodsprings and Black Mountain.

No longer would he be Alec.

He'd be....your Pal.

: )
 
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Name:
JOB

[Insert photo of one most definitely-not-drug-addled Securitron]

VOCATION:
EVERYTHING

S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:
STR: 4
PER: 7
END: 4
CHA: 1
INT: 4
AGI: 7
LCK: 1

SKILLS:
Major: Unarmed, Sneak, Lockpick, Barter
Minor: Energy Weapons, Repair
Ass: Explosives

Perks: Day Tripper; Silent Running; Slayer; Infiltrator; Run 'n Gun; Hit the Deck*; Toughness*; Implant GRX (Formerly)**

*related to their chassis
**subdermal implant perk

Starting equipment:
1714784947441.png
wouldn't you like to know, weatherboy.

Mojave cred:

Old World Blues
I Fought The Law
Eyes on the Prize
Wheel of Fortune
Aba Daba Honeymoon
Don't Make A Beggar Of Me
The White Wash


BG:

A product of a certain faction housed within Big MT that saw the attempted marriage of various technologies. This involved Robert House's Securitron bots, which were often taken to be reverse-engineered, and General Atomic's military application of the RoboBrain weapon systems platform atop of other secret horrible technologies. The genesis of the project surrounding the securitrons was an egomaniacal bid to outdo House by essentially improving on the design itself, though all attempts borne complete and utter failure simply because of the project lead's operating system architecture having been rife with critically poor designs.

There were offshoots in the projects' experimental iterations, attempts that were tantamount to throwing the proverbial gray matter at the wall to see what epiphanies dribbled down the cement. One of them had been to leverage the same ideology that led to the creation of a canine brain-powered minigun, only instead with a human brain interred inside a securitron while overhauling the classical RoboBrain programming with a custom suite. This negated the need for both complex software and chipset designs in order to leverage the platform housing the brain's full potential.

Naturally, this was rife with failure, the subjects being prone to berserk fits of rage more unsettling than the standard securitrons that'd failed before them.

Save for one. It called into question as to whether or not it could truly be called a success and any passing records of this experiment was a scattering recollection. A replication of this 'success' was considered dubious as determining factor for why it seemd to succeed where others failed was deemed to have been the brain selected for it. Even with the standard extraction and wiping procedures of the RoboBrain program that typically saw a subject's brain irrevocably changed for the worse.

A chem-junkie, a serial seeker of the next high filched from the wasteland with a superior tolerance for the harsh chemicals coursing through their body without any long-term ramifications. A dime a dozen those were but the standout quality was, despite the problematic personality flaws, a strong enduring sense of the self only crippled by the physiological need for the next fix. Unironically having dubbed themselves the Fixer, their life goals boiled down to perfecting the caps-to-chems ratio in their storied history of jobs across the wasteland.

Having burnt their brain chemistry in the literal sense into their brain through a slew of Jet-inspired mishmashes of drugs and alcohol, it became obvious in a twist of irony that the undesirables of the wasteland had a potential quality that befit the project in where the projected criteria of a controllable subject that was programmable was concerned.

The issue that manifested was not unlike ones the RoboBrain project saw, necessitating the need for wiping their ersatz personalities that developed over time in order to maintained their roles as slaved automatons. Except the subject became increasingly resistant to the process with each wiping, becoming more and more erratic each time, and eventually a bout of psychosis saw the termination of the project.

A prevailing thought for the horrific cyborg which looped relentlessly was the intense and burgeoning to both discover itself and follow through on a job of every kind, whether it ranged from mail delivery to pest extermination, to expeditions tantamount to a trek across two thousand miles of nuclear blasted wastelands. It really only understood one thing... each time it completed a job, the high from its satisfaction was nothing like it'd ever experienced in its very brief life-- so it thought-- and it found itself both enamored and horrified.​
 
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1715298406298.png

Name:
'Gotz'

Faction/employment/other vague categorization:

Former right hand of the Parliament of Seraphic Raptors

Now just a very jaded and very angry super mutant


S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:
STR: 8
PER: 6
END: 7
CHA: 2
INT: 3
AGI: 4
LCK: 1

Skills:
Major:
Explosives, Guns, Melee Weapons, Survival
Minor: Unarmed, Sneak
uh oh: Speech

Perks: Hunter/Run' n' Gun/Demolition Expert/Ferocious Loyalty/Lead Belly/Shotgun Surgeon/Toughness/Super Slam!/Hit the Deck!/Adamantium Skeleton

Starting equipment:
Frag grenades
Throwing knives
metal armor reinforced
Guilty Pleasure (makeshift prosthetic made out of a Power armor gauntlet with a magnet & Junk Jet built into it)
The Master's Will (massive makeshift sword)
Sawed-off shotgun
Stimpak
Psycho

Mojave cred:
(ooc gotta think about this lol)

Brief(ish) background:


A one-eyed mercenary with a huge sword and a lot of issues. Physical and mental.

Best to stay out of his way.




The young man that'd eventually come to be known as 'Gotz' by his comrades and enemies alike was a war orphan. With no parents to protect him, there was no saving him from the encroaching army lead by The Lieutenant in service to the Master. He was subject to the FEV-2 Virus and subsequently became a 'Super Mutant.' After the Master's defeat and the destruction of the Cathedral, a group of former soldiers decided to take the younger super mutant under their wing and try their luck as a mercenary group. He'd grow up in a much different environment than his soon to be hated enemy-Angel-but at first carried out much of the same duties. Carrying supplies and medicine until he was old enough and physically capable enough to swing a sword worth a damn. Eventually, his group ran afoul of the NCR and were picked off by some Rangers after they simply refused to back down. It was so long ago that if you were to ask Gotz, he couldn't even remember what the job had been. Only that it was 'worth it' enough for his adoptive father to forgo the safety of the troupe in order to try and make off with the loot himself. When the child confronted him, it turned into a fight.

One that the adopted son ultimately won.

Up until that point, the boy had only been known as just that: 'hey boy bring me this/move this/do that' etc. When he stared down his father figure after mortally wounding him, the man chuckled and spoke through his blood. "....Heh. You've got guts, kid..." To the common layman it was obvious he meant 'Guts' but the boy heard it as 'Gotz' due to the blood gurgling in the man's throat and from that day on? That was the name he went and still goes by. Avoiding arrest by the NCR, Gotz continued to work as a gun for hire. He usually preferred shotguns and brute force over stealthy maneuvers. It wasn't until he was approached by an owl-mask wearing man that he'd find his next 'family.' Guy called himself 'The Seraphim' and lead some kind of terrorist organization that'd been rampaging across the Mojave making trouble for the NCR and just about anybody they deemed as 'guilty.' They sounded absolutely nuts but what the hell? It'd give him a chance to rest his weary head amongst someone other than corpses.

In time he grew to make dear friends among the Parliament of Seraphic Raptors. He even got to co-lead a hunting party with a woman named Cassandra as his peer. Together they'd name the group the 'Band of the Cazador' and would lead successful raids on NCR territory and wipe out entire raider encampments.
It felt just like the good old days. Up until they weren't. The Seraphim-who Gotz and Cassandra and the other members of the Band of the Cazador later learned was named Angel/and was even a former member of the Followers-had wanted to try and take over Legion territory. Such had been the plan all up until Gotz proposed a counter suggestion.

That he'd leave and go out on his own. The idea shocked everyone of his comrades. Many of whom while initially disgusted and terrified at the idea of a super mutant among their otherwise human ranks (disregarding the fact that Angel was a mutant himself) they'd grown to see Gotz as a mighty warrior, a great commander, and generally just a fine friend to have by your side in battle. Gotz harbored no ill will towards any of his new kin, least of all Angel and Cassandra. The former had earned Gotz's membership in the first place by defeating him in a sword battle and Cassandra?

She didn't mind at all that he was a mutant. She spoke to him as though he were another human, a normal.

They weren't his bio parents; they never would be and Gotz would never truly get a chance to know how those people really were. But they cared about him and that was enough. At least until he'd voiced his opinion to try and leave. Angel wouldn't hear a word of it. This eventually boiled over into a standoff between the two men with the remainder of the Cazadors watching in sheer trepidation, unsure of how things would turn out.

"I'm leaving. That's all there is to it, Angel."

"I'm not 'Angel.' I'm the Seraphim. Just because we're brothers in arms does not give you a pass to speak to me so plainly. I deserve respect as your leader and as such, I reject this proposal. You'll 'leave' when I give the go ahead and not a moment sooner!"

"I don't want to fight you, Angel." Gotz said, his words injected so thickly with truth, you'd see it coming out the other end. "...But if you won't see reason then you leave me no choice." Gotz moved to grab the handle of his sword-one he'd christened 'The Master's Will.-It was a gigantic thing. No regular man could hope to pick it up let alone swing it in battle. Such was a benefit from being a Super Mutant he supposed. Gotz despised it otherwise. Considering his affliction a curse and his existence as an abomination. Angel's bright purple eyes leered at his disobedient subordinate and never broke eye contact even as he drew his own sword.

"Gotz, Angel, please! We don't have to do this."

"Yes. We do." Both men agreed.

The crowd stood back to give them a wide berth.

Gotz spread his feet apart and braced himself. When they first met, Angel had used his nimble frame and impressive armor to either dodge Gotz's blows or move just enough that the blows, while certainly they still stung, didn't head dead on. If they had than Angel would have had to contend with busted armor and likely broken bones if not internal bleeding. But in all the skirmishes they'd had with the NCR and even the Brotherhood of Steel, he'd learned. He wouldn't back down even if Angel was his best friend. This role as 'leader' had gotten to his head something fierce and if it took a resounding defeat to learn that?

Then so be it.

"Have at you!"

Angel moved in and swung his sword.

Gotz swung his, faster than Angel had expected. Much faster. There was little to be done other than attempt to block. Which given the immense strength difference between the two-

*CRACK* *SHATTER*

Angel's blade snapped in twain and the dull side of The Master's Will struck him dead across the chest, sending him flying back. As he rolled across the dirt, Angel coughed and waved off the other flocklings from rushing to his aid. Gotz had taken great care not to strike Angel too hard. They were still friends after all. "...It's done, then." Gotz turned and went to strap his sword onto his back only to hear Angel softly cursing him under his breath.

"I'd... hoped to keep you by my side. But if you're so obstinate that you'll defy me no matter what..." Angel staggered to his feet and reached inside his cloak, pulling out a tome of some sorts. The raw energy ebbing from the book instantly left a feeling of dread and unease washing over Gotz and the others.


"I've grown too humble. Let those around me get too close. I fought so hard for you to stay because I desired you and Cassandra to stay by my side til the end. But, now, I suppose....The end is here. I will wipe the slate clean. Rebuild the Band of the Cazadors but with my OWN kind! ....I wish you would have stayed, Gotz."

"Angel, what are you-"

The ground began to shake and as Gotz glanced down, he saw what'd he missed earlier. The 'fight' with Angel had distracted him entirely. It looked to be some kind of summoning circle, a large one at that. Big enough to encompass....everyone but Angel and Cassandra. As the other followers began to ask and wonder what was going on, birds cried out overhead as clouds started to roll in. The forebearer to the ill omens that lay ahead. Cassandra clung to Angel, tears in her eyes. "Please, Angel! Don't do this!"

"Angel! Stop-"

But it was too late.

Angel lifted his mask just enough. To let his once dear friend see his face one last time.

Then he began to read.



<-The Catastrophe at Gypsum.

Whatever happened that night was not meant for the eyes of man. Entrails lay scattered, eyeballs crushed and limbs tossed to the wayside. Birds picked at what was left. The clouds had parted and all that remained was Gotz. Standing with the severed head of some horrible beast clinging to the stump of his right arm. Blood clouded his vision as he pulled a broken off claw from his left eye. It'd been gouged out completely, no saving it. At his feet, it looked as though his blood had messed up the boundaries of the circle. Ending the Catasrophe at Gypsum.

He'd survived.

But for how long? Where would he even go?

....what was even the point? Angel was gone and he'd taken Cassandra with him.

Dragging the tip of his blade against the bloodsoaked ground, Gotz exhaled and felt his entire body rattle as he looked up at the sky.

"ANGEL!!!!!!"


Angel presumed them to all be dead apart from Cassandra and another member who'd retired just before the tragedy at the Gypsum Train Yard. Only to hear reports that a black haired man who was missing a chunk of his arm up to the elbow and one of his eyes was rampaging across the Mojave. Looking for the man who'd taken his trust, his love, and destroyed it.

One way or another.
 
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  • Wicked
Reactions: OrlandoBloomers
Name:
Evangelyne Stucker


VOCATION:
Guide / Moira's # 1 Biggest Fan Evar

S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:
STR: 5
PER: 3
END: 8
CHA: 4
INT: 4
AGI: 3
LCK: 5

SKILLS:
Major: Survival, Melee, Repair, Barter
Minor: Speech, Unarmed
Ass: Medicine

Perks: Travel Light; Home on the Range; Tribal Wisdom; Them's Good Eatin'; Weapon Handling; Lead Belly; Rad Absorption

Starting equipment:
Fire Axe
Roughin' it! bedroll kit

Mojave cred:
The Coyotes
You Can Depend On Me
Not Worth a Hill of Corn and Beans
Pheeble Will (noped out of Beyond the Beef)


BG:

Never mind that bitch Sierra Petrovita, the only thing worthwhile being the biggest fan of is the badass that wrote the BLESSED Wasteland Survival Guide; talk about a monumentally pivotal moment in history with the sheaves of mud-stained pamphlets disseminated across the country saving untold lives! Nuka Cola is dog water and has done dick by pure comparison, plus, it's the REGRETTABLY enduring remnant of a corporation that saw us more as products and certainly endeavored in anything less than magnanimous where we were concerned.

Unlike Miss Moira!

Plus I'm still pissing blue from that last drink, thank Hell for Sarsaparilla.

It genuinely is my greatest dream to eventually meet Moira and showcase exactly what her masterpiece has accomplished, the survival of your everyday common man. And y'know, get her autograph on my second edition printing of the guide but most definitely that first bit there.

Speaking of, I managed to enroll myself into this sick caravan that seems to be heading East. Apparently, they really have a mighty need for people that can rough it out there with the classic combination of resourcefulness and hardiness. Sounds like none of these nerds have read the Guide. That's okay though, they'll eventually appreciate eating Bark Scorpion legs in time.
 
Last edited:

lJuBK1C.jpg

00033-1335628921.jpeg



N A M E
Luther Crean,
The Highwayman

J O B
Desert Ranger (former); bounty hunter (former); pathfinder/trailhand/handyman for the Crimson Caravan Company (one of those 'one size fits all' roles)

S . P . E . C . I . A . L .
STR: 5
PER: 8
END: 7
CHA: 2
INT: 4
AGI: 6
LCK: 7


S K I L L S
Major - Survival, Guns, Melee, Repair
Minor - Sneak, Unarmed
Uh oh - Energy Weapons

P E R K S
Cowboy, Nerves of Steel, Intense Training, Toughness, Jury Rigging, Ranger Takedown, Center of Mass, Hand Loader, Fight the Power!

G E A R
Desert Ranger tactical armor
Cowboy repeater
Police pistol
Bowie knife
Recurve bow
Radio scanner
Rangefinder telescope
Coyote tobacco
Stimpacks
Radaway
Various cures, roots and herbs
Highwayman

C R E D
My Kind of Town
Unfriendly Persuasion
How Little We Know
Left My Heart
Booted
Old School Ghoul
Someguy Series

T A L E
Goodsprings, 2281.
FNV_Character_Easy_Pete.png

"Howdy."

1. Why do they call you Easy Pete?
2. What can you tell me about Victor?
3. Has the population crisis affected Goodsprings?
4. Any thoughts on Kimball's visit?
5. Know of any local legends?

"Nope."
1. Are you sure?
2. Guess I'll ask elsewhere, then.
3. [Speech 42/60] I was being polite, you cantankerous fuck!

"Yup. Just 'cause I'm old, don't mean I wanna waste what time I got left tellin' young folk stories. Talk to Nash. Next town over."


Primm, 2281.
Johnson-Nash.jpg

"Johnson Nash, atcher service. What can I do ya for, youngster?"
1. I have some questions about Primm.
2. Do you have anything for sale?
3. Has President Kimball's tour affected the town?
4. [Intrusive Thoughts] Another receding scrotum pointed me to you.
5. Easy Pete up in Goodsprings said you might be willing to share a local legend or two?


"Say, now. That's some accent you got there, friend. I been up far as the Hub and back and I ain't never heard the likes of it before. You Canadian? Well, s'ppose you shot first on the questions front, didn't she Clyde?"
"Reckon so."

"Yeah, Clyde here's good with a wrench, but he don't talk much. Look, Pete's a coot 'n hasn't paid for a stamp up here in over ten years, roundabouts the same length he's had his plum glued to Trudy's porch I reckon. But... hell, I'm bored, Ruby's over at the casino for bingo and I ain't got a whit to do 'til Sally makes her drop at midnight. Resident grease monkey won't mind watchin' the storefront while an old man makes some tea out back, ain't that right Clyde?"
"Yup."

"All of which is to say, you're in luck, missy. You done and caught me on the type o' night I just might feel liable to neglect the shop and indulge a youngin's curiosity in the desert she walks. Those types of questions dried right up, y'know, decade or two back. All's I ever get asked about now's Bear stories, Bull stories. Had one feller just about yap my ear off on the subject not too long ago, on and on for hours.

Well, they might account for most the noise lately, but you best believe these sands been around a helluva lot longer than the NCR or Legion have. Got a feel for all kindsa footprints, big and small. Much as they may wanna replace our history with theirs, the desert's got plenty legends of its own to keep us tickin' over. Sierra Madre, the Legend of the Star... but you said local, and when it comes to the history of the Mojave it don't get much more local than the Desert Rangers.

And when you're talkin' Desert Rangers and Primm, well, missy; there are few more uncanny in all the wastes than the strange tale of...


the Three Deaths of Luther Crean.


which would be expanded upon... LATER.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




De8-XXe-MXc-AEZb-I6.png



N A M E
Valentina Godot
THE STARLET

J O B
Vault Dweller; thespian

S . P . E . C . I . A . L .
STR: 4
PER: 7
END: 3
CHA: 8
INT: 7
AGI: 8
LCK: 1


S K I L L S
Major: Sneak, Unarmed, Lockpick, Energy Weapons, [TAG] Medicine
Minor: Speech, Explosives
Shit: Barter

P E R K S
Fast Metabolism, Silent Running, Chemist, Living Anatomy, The Professional, Monocyte Breeder, Grim Reaper's Sprint, Paralyzing Palm, Tag!, Black Widow/Cherchez la Femme, [TRAIT] Logan's Loophole

G E A R
Vault Suit
Pip-Boy 2000
Thirst Zapper
Silenced .22 Pistol
Wattz 2000 "Sunbeam" Laser Rifle
Syringer
Mother Darkness
Tremble
Silver Sting
Chems
Various stickers, plushies, knick knacks and otherwise useless crap constituting the remainder of her inventory space

C R E D
Lonesome Road

T A L E
6th Platoon, Nightkin Company, 3rd Recon Battalion Static Report: Lance Corporal Varden patrol log. Another truckload for the outpost—that's the eleventh this morning. These migrant caravans break up and disperse over the terrain for miles before crossing the Colorado, so we'll be dealing with the intake for days - and that's assuming another one doesn't show up.

We don't have the manpower for this. We should be fortifying our position at the dam, not wasting resources on Caesar's ex-bootlickers looking to switch sides now their glorious leader's slave empire didn't pan out. Still, orders are orders. You gotta figure half these guys are getting drafted and sent right back to the front line whenever the brass mount a full campaign in Arizona either way.

A vault dweller showed up with the last wave. She can stay. Something about those suits, man, I don't know. I'm a frea

Forgot I'm supposed to sign off on this. And this is my only piece of paper. Crap. Vaultie was hard to follow - couldn't place her dialect. Canadian, maybe? Something about being a star, needing to show House some tapes. Sometimes these vault types are crazier than the muties. Arizona's got vaults, right? I don't think she was from Arizona.

I wonder if she liked me. Felt like I was picking up on something in hindsight. God, I'm an idiot.

Least I got her name for the intake bureau. Something real regional, sounded like. Vera? Valerie?

Screw it, I'm not getting in trouble over this. I'm just gonna say we were clear all hour. She's the Mojave's problem now. It's a vault dweller, what's the worst that could happen?

I'll eat this note so no one ever finds it.





 
Last edited:

super-mutant-cyborg-by-preciteran-damjt1q-414w-2x.jpg


N A M E
THE MIRE

J O B
FOLLOW.

S . P . E . C . I . A . L .
STR: 10
PER: 10
END: 10
CHA: 1
INT: 1
AGI: 2
LCK: 5


S K I L L S
Major: Survival, Unarmed, Melee Weapons, Big Guns
Minor: Sneak, Explosives
Shit: Speech

P E R K S
Brainless, Cannibal, Bloody Mess, Ghastly Scavenger, Stonewall, Terrifying Presence, Unstoppable Force, Animal Friend

G E A R
Fat Man

C R E D
I Fought The Law
Eyes on the Prize
Wheel of Fortune
Aba Daba Honeymoon
Don't Make A Beggar Of Me
The White Wash

T A L E
A product of a certain faction housed within Big MT that saw the attempted marriage of various technologies. This involved Robert House's Securitron bots, which were often taken to be reverse-engineered, and General Atomic's military application of the RoboBrain weapon systems platform atop of other secret horrible technologies. The genesis of the project surrounding the securitrons was an egomaniacal bid to outdo House by essentially improving on the design itself, though all attempts borne complete and utter failure simply because of the project lead's operating system architecture having been rife with critically poor designs.

There were offshoots in the projects' experimental iterations, attempts that were tantamount to throwing the proverbial gray matter at the wall to see what epiphanies dribbled down the cement. One of them had been to leverage the same ideology that led to the creation of a canine brain-powered minigun, only instead with a human brain interred inside a securitron while overhauling the classical RoboBrain programming with a custom suite. This negated the need for both complex software and chipset designs in order to leverage the platform housing the brain's full potential.

Naturally, this was rife with failure, the subjects being prone to berserk fits of rage more unsettling than the standard securitrons that'd failed before them.

Save for one. It called into question as to whether or not it could truly be called a success and any passing records of this experiment was a scattering recollection. A replication of this 'success' was considered dubious as determining factor for why it seemd to succeed where others failed was deemed to have been the brain selected for it. Even with the standard extraction and wiping procedures of the RoboBrain program that typically saw a subject's brain irrevocably changed for the worse.

A chem-junkie, a serial seeker of the next high filched from the wasteland with a superior tolerance for the harsh chemicals coursing through their body without any long-term ramifications. A dime a dozen those were but the standout quality was, despite the problematic personality flaws, a strong enduring sense of the self only crippled by the physiological need for the next fix. Unironically having dubbed themselves the Fixer, their life goals boiled down to perfecting the caps-to-chems ratio in their storied history of jobs across the wasteland.

Having burnt their brain chemistry in the literal sense into their brain through a slew of Jet-inspired mishmashes of drugs and alcohol, it became obvious in a twist of irony that the undesirables of the wasteland had a potential quality that befit the project in where the projected criteria of a controllable subject that was programmable was concerned.

The issue that manifested was not unlike ones the RoboBrain project saw, necessitating the need for wiping their ersatz personalities that developed over time in order to maintained their roles as slaved automatons. Except the subject became increasingly resistant to the process with each wiping, becoming more and more erratic each time, and eventually a bout of psychosis saw the termination of the project.

A prevailing thought for the horrific cyborg which looped relentlessly was the intense and burgeoning to both discover itself and follow through on a job of every kind, whether it ranged from mail delivery to pest extermination, to expeditions tantamount to a trek across two thousand miles of nuclear blasted wastelands. It really only understood one thing... each time it completed a job, the high from its satisfaction was nothing like it'd ever experienced in its very brief life-- so it thought-- and it found itself both enamored and horrified.​

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Name:
Hailey Edwards

faction/employment:
Independent traveler/merchant

S.P.E.C.I.A.L.:

STR: 1
PER: 2
END: 1
CHA: 8
INT: 8
AGI: 4
LCK: 4



Skills:
Majors:
Science, Repair, Speech, Barter
Minor: Medicine, Sneak
Oh no: Guns

Perks:
Robotics Expert, Computer Whiz, Light Step, Jury Rigging, Animal Friend, Educated

Starting equipment:
Switchblade
Backpack
Plenty of junk, crafting and misc items to sell
Lots of food
Decent stash of caps
Stimpacks
Radaway

Mojave cred:
None

brief(ish) background:
A 12 year old child raised by a loving family of farmers back in the heart of the NCR...and hated it. Not her family, she loves them dearly, but they clearly had this set expectation for her that she would take up the family business. That was something she knew in her bones was not something she wanted for her life. She knew she wanted more, and that she could reach it. All her teachers in the NCR knew it too, that she had a gift with computers and machines, and said as much, furthering the idea in her mind that there was so much more she could do in her life than continuing the family tradition. There was many a time where she slipped away from the farming she was supposed to be doing, and just went exploring.

Much as she loved her family, she wouldn't be staying true to herself living that life. That was why at only the age of 11, one day when the rest of her family was out in the markets getting what they needed, she ran away from that home with only two things left behind: a letter explaining why and the hope that they would come to understand her decision. She headed eastward, leaving the relative peace of the core NCR behind, but she was no fool. Why she felt so comfortable leaving at that age, was because she didn't go alone.

You see, on one of her previous times sneaking out, she'd stumbled onto an incredible, hidden discovery. It took a long time and many more visits to fix up what she discovered, but with what she had been taught and the innate nature of her mind, she managed to bring the two back to working order and booted them up, and the plan to escape the dull life before her began to crystallize in her mind. Under their protection, with her ability to repair and maintain them, she reasoned she had a fair shot at leaving all this behind, even at her age!

So it was that the trio of Hailey, and her two Sentry Bot guardians that she christened Frank and Dora, embarked on the long journey that she envisioned. Of course, a girl still needed to eat, and for that she needed caps. She scavenged what she could along the way, and with her childish charm, bartered with the traders she frequently met on the roads. It was they that inspired her, seeing that as a good living, and soon enough her scavenging was not only a means of survival but a major part of her chosen occupation, as she herself also took up the life of a merchant, trading away plenty of stuff to people in need in exchange for a healthy supply of caps.

It took months, but she did make it to the area around New Vegas, and when she heard about this convoy idea, well...her curiosity was piqued.​