Fallout: When the Bull came (Starting)

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When the Bull came


Edit:If you noticed an exact same thread as this posted as well, please, Ignore it. I honestly have no Idea how I posted this twice, just a little note.

First here's my sheet hope you like it and it's complete with bio, second God-Damnit you made two sign up threads

Captain Anon:
First here's my sheet hope you like it and it's complete with bio, second God-Damnit you made two sign up threads

Pretty good, and yes I realize that, I honestly dont know how it happened. just a minor mishap nothing to worry about.

This seems interesting, I'll give it a shot. Please give me feedback regarding the character sheet.

Who could say no to Fallout? Especially New Vegas!

This seems interesting, I'll give it a shot. Please give me feedback regarding the character sheet.

Overall good character, but it would seem you have the rules for your Perks, Skills, and traits mixed up a little. I clearly posted that you can have no more then 5 perks, 4 skills to be considerably good at, and 2 traits. But everything else seems to be in order

I edited the sheet.

If you don't mind me asking, is a Legion-aligned character possible?

If you don't mind me asking, is a Legion-aligned character possible?

Sure I guess you can, go ahead and post what you have in mind.

Hi, this looks like a promising RP, so I thought I'd submit something.

updated with one of John's tactics

Alright cool, It seems we got a decent amount of people to start. because of what I'm doing tomorrow I wont be starting it that day. Ill probably end up starting it either Monday or Tuesday sometime after 3:20 pm. Just letting you guys know whats up...oh and I may make a group for this, seems to be working out for another RP I'm doing.

Hey everyone, sorry about being a little late. hopefully my sheet holds up and i can still be accepted

Please tell me if there is anything you want me to change. i am open to constructive criticism.


The sun was merciless as usual, one would expect nothing less from the godforsaken Mojave. I must have seen 50+ people latched to crosses wile scavenging throughout the desert, if I were still Human and a hell of a lot younger I would have puked. But, I seen my share of fucked up shit to be used to it all by now. But it don't meen I don't care, on the contrary, it weighs heavily on my heart. The world has gone to hell since the bombs fell, and I had the misfortune of surviving. I think I was 22...no...26? when they fell, I remember it like it was yesterday like a nightmare I cant seem to get out of my mind. The gate of New Vegas came within view, and standing in front of it were two securitrons armed to the teeth. As I approached one of them confronted me saying, "NO ONES ALLOWED IN THE CITY WITHOUT A PASSPORT OR DOCUMENT OF ENTRY, ALL VIOLATORS WILL BE KILLED". I sigh, "cool your circuits robot, I have it right here" and I show it my little passport. The securitron studied it a moment then said, "YOU MAY ENTER FREE SIDE" and the gate opened. I say sarcastically, "Wow...today must be my goddamn lucky day" and walk into freeside.

Freeside. crowded as usual with refuges from just about everywhere because of The Legion, a group of cold blooded mass murdering slavers but enough about them, I arrived a two days ago wasted most of my caps getting a damn passport I've sleeping just outside The Fort, don't know why but I guess I'm acting as a Guard dog or something, anyway throughout the day I spend it in the middle of lower freeside with the Fort in front of me just me and my guitar, I take off my hat laying it upside so people can put caps in it, thought I'd sing one about pain and then started to play "I hurt myself....today, to see if I still... feel, I focus on...the pain........The only thing that's real, The needle tears a hole.....The old familiar sting, Try to kill it.... all away, But I remember...everything.

What have I become.....My sweetest friend, Everyone I know.....goes away..in the end......And you could have it all.....My empire of dirt, I will let you down,......I will make you hurt..........I wear this....crown..of thorns, Upon my liar's chair,.....Full of broken thoughts,....I cannot....repair. Beneath the stains of....time, The feelings....disappear, You are someone else.

I am still....right here,....What have I become.....My sweetest friend Everyone I know..goes away..in the end.......And you could have it all,....My empire of dirt, I will let you down, I will make you hurt,.......If I could start again.......A million miles away.......I will keep myself I would find a way" I sing for a good few minutes loud enough for people on both sides of freeside to of heard it

Twitch tensed slightly as the young woman in front of him sloshed about the black liquid in the empty soda bottle he'd given her, "Careful, bad if it spills, worse if it touches you."

The woman drew out a portion of the liquid with a syringe, and dropped a bead onto a strip of testing paper. She noted the color change and let out the breath she'd been holding for the past minute, "Christ, it's Tremble alright, high purity stuff too. Where'd you get so much?"

"Made it," Twitch shrugged, it was an old trick. He knew many would pay quite the sum for a reliable source of the stuff, enough to keep him in chems for life, but he'd never done it for profit. The world was full of enough poison as it was, and this sort was too dangerous in the wrong hands. Besides, cazadores were a bitch to kill. Even handing it over to Followers felt... wrong, like he was dirtying them somehow, "Wh-w-w-why did you need it?"

The young woman chuckled and shook her head softly. Her name was Sammi, half the reason Twitch had took the job was because it came from her. Twitch respected the Followers of the Apocalypse on general principle, but Sammi he genuinely liked. She was kind, patient with him, and she understood the pressures in him better than most. Besides, she called on him sometimes to keep her company when she was feeling lonesome, and that scratched a whole other sort of itch. A smile from her put his mind at ease a bit, and the words settled the matter," It's alright, Twitch, the Followers aren't goin' to war, that's not what we're about. Hell, when I put the call out I never thought we'd get this much, I was hopeful for a vial or two, but all this... you're a man of many talents."

That remark colored Twitch's cheeks and sparked another chuckle from Sammi. It was easy enough to get a blush from the boy, that was half the appeal to be honest, "Now, why do you put tremble on your blade?"

"Makes a man's hands stupid. If the first blow doesn't end it, ma-m-m-m-makes the second easier," Twitch wasn't fond of talk of killing, not around Followers at least, pacifists that they were. But again, Sammi understood better than most and she didn't judge too harshly.

"Exactly. But maybe, just maybe, in the right dosage, or combined with something else, we can use tremble to do just the opposite and help folks born with the quakes or those who catch bad spirits from too much radiation. Often times, the only difference between a poison and a cure is the dosage," Sammi beamed at him, typically gentle brown eyes filled with a rare sort of fire. Twitch perked up a bit and offered the girl a grin. It seemed like magic, healing with a poison, but Twitch had seen plenty of miracles amongst Followers and other folks good with medicine and the like. Sammi pressed a little cloth bag into his hands and he took it without too much fuss after a moment's hesitation. He didn't typically take caps from Followers, it never felt right, but he knew he'd have a powerful need to eat sooner or later. He and the young doctor had come to an agreement, he'd only take 20% of the caps for a Follower job, but they'd supplement it with a few stimpacks and a couple doses of fixer. It worked out best for the both of them.

"Thanks Twitch, good work," Twitch grinned, offered a little nod and turned to leave. A slight tug at his arm stopped him, "I've got day shift, stop back by after dark... you could use a good scrubbing."

The blush on the kid's cheeks managed to reach the tips of his ears. He tried to stammer out a reply, gave up and offered a crooked sort of smile and a frantic nod before shuffling on out the door.


Twitch made his way through the Old Mormon Fort's massive gates and paused a moment, perking up at the sound of music. He loved a good song. He cherished the radio on his Pip-Boy but not even Mr. New Vegas quite matched a live performance. He hunkered down against the wall of the Fort and listened. His enthusiasm waned a bit as the song went on, the eager smile replaced by something a bit more thoughtful, a bit more reflective. The song was a melancholy affair, and talk of a needle's prick and lost friends hit a little too close to home. Twitch shuddered slightly and felt a bit of moisture build up behind his eyes, but shed no tears. The man's singing was fine enough and his fingers fluttered over the guitar strings with ease, but it was too early in the day for bleak thoughts and old sorrows.

The kid roused himself and rose to his feet. He trotted over towards the singer, and dropped a few caps in the man's hat. He didn't have much in the way of money to spare, but he'd offer what little he could. He waited for a break in the man's singing and fished a bottle of water from the knapsack slung across his shoulders. The water was pure, still slightly cool, only recently pulled from Freeside's underground wells. He held it out to the man, an offering of thanks for the music.

I look up at the teenager with sad but also cold eyes as he drops a few caps in my hat I nod, as he hands me a bottle of water I say in a young sounding voice to my old singing voice "thanks kid I was starting to get thirsting" Before taking a long sip "aaaahhh much better" I said twisting the lid back on and placed it on the floor next to me, I look back up at the teenager "got a song request kid?" I said tuning my guitar a little

As I walked about freeside one of the most imediate thing I notice are all the refugees, it was a sad sight to see. This place was pretty bad before the legion's victory, now, just a hell hole. Next thing I knew I felt a gun being pressed against my head, "gimme all your caps or...o-or Ill blast your brains out". The voice sounded young, and his arm seemed to be trembling. No doubt the boy was suffering from withdrawal symptoms. slowly I raise my hands into the air, only to come back around to quickly disarm the would be thug and hold the gun to his head. "NO PLEASE...!!!" begged the young man, as every one looked at me as if I was doing something wrong. I professionally dissemble the gun and threw the parts away and walk off, the young man gasping in relief. Going down the road I recognize the old Mormon Fort, and passing it up some music. Real guitar strings, and not from an old radio. I turn to see a individual just sitting down and playing some tunes, I have to admit hearing a real guitar brought back some good memories from before the Atomic war.

A smile slowly stretches across my ghoulish face, something that hasn't happened in a while. I approach the man and the teenager who seemed to be enjoying the music as well. I reach into my pocket only to find just a few caps and placed it in his hat " god bless you sir...".

Brother Saturday strolled down the Strip, flanked by four beefy men with SMGs hidden in their coats. Radio New Vegas was playing through the streets as always, but there were less people on the street to hear it during the day. Everyone knew The Strip really came to life at night. Saturday's jaunted red top hat caught the sunlight as he approached the entrance to the Gomorrah Hotel and Casino.

It was well known for being the biggest den of vice in New Vegas, and it had earned the reputation. Saturday and his men strolled passed the security without being searched, and headed upstairs toward Big Sal's office. Saturday had his men stand outside the door while he went inside. Big things were being set in motion. People would die, money would be made, and power would shift. That's just a day in Vegas after all.

"'Ello Sal. Ya look good bruddah." Saturday said, pulling a cigar from his coat and lighting it.

"What am I, chopped liver?" asked Nero, the Omertas' second boss.

"Let's not get off on dey wrong foot 'ere. We got some mey-ja business to discuss, aye?" Saturday replied before taking a puff of his cigar, leaving it sticking from his mouth, held by his teeth.

"All right Labeaux, we have our own shit to take care of, what do you want?" Big Sal said impatiently.

"I's sure by now you 'eard dah Khans is havin more trouble den dey cahn take. Dey got no where to put dah people runnin from dah Legion, and since dah Legion don't take kindly tah drugs, dey killed all ah de Khans clients. Dey used to be dah biggest drug runnahs in dah desert, but now, dey got one foot in dah grave. If your men and mine went tah Red Rock and stirred up a riot, Dah Khans would be dead and gahn in a week. Dat would make dah Sons Of Samedi de only mey-ja drug runnahs in town. We already got dah tourist market on dah Strip, but wit de Khans gone, we would get everyone outside dah strip in Freeside and North-Side too. So wacha wanna do frens?"

Brother Saturday grinned a wide toothy grin before he blew out a large cloud of cigar smoke. His confidence was electric.

Sal and Nero talked quietly back and forth for about a minute before turning back to Saturday.

"Alright. But we got some conditions." Big Sal said. "We'll let you keep 55% of the profits made on The Strip, but it's gonna be the other way around for business outside the gate. We take 55% and you get 45%, and your men have to do the dealing."

Brother Saturday put his cigar back in his mouth and stuck out his hand. "We gotta deal."

They shook on it.


Later on, in the penthouse suit, Brother Saturday was talking to his right hand, Luke. They were speaking Haitian, in case the Omertas were listening.

"**When the fighting is over, I want you to bring me Great Khan's heart.**" Saturday said. "**I will eat it, and with it, the strength of the Great Khans.**"

"**Of course Brother Saturday. But when do we deal with the Omertas? Those idiots trust us completely already. Why are we still waiting? We could have killed them dozens of times by now.**"

"**Not quite yet. We don't know how Mr. House will react. But their time will come. Everyone meets the Baron someday.**"

Twitch blinked, a bit taken a back by the man's question. His voice was strange, more youthful than when he'd sang. A closer look showed a face with fewer wrinkles than one might expect from such a soulful crooner, but Twitch wasn't too surprised, no one really stayed young in the Wasteland. Everyone earned their years one way or another. Some showed it in the eyes, and this one, this one showed it in his songs. He hadn't expected anything in return for his little offering, but it was a kindness, and any kindness, even a little one, was too rare in the Mojave to go passing up. Blue eyes surveyed Freeside for brief moment before closing in pensive thought. Twitch could almost feel them, all the souls of the slums, their hopelessness, their despair. A pack of kids were chasing a giant rat, no doubt looking at their evening supper. A group of junkies huddled together, shivering despite the desert heat, bodies wracked by the pangs of withdrawal. The streets had only grown more crowded over the past few months, refugees looking for any corner to huddle together and lick their wounds.

A man approached and paid the singer his due. No, not just a man, a ghoul. Bright eyes flickered over the creature's face, over the cracked and peeling skin, the deep lines so nearly reminiscent of corpse rot. Twitch rather liked ghouls, he figured that of all people, ghouls showed their truest selves. In all truth, the face of a ghoul held a mirror up to a person's soul. Most folks were uglier than any ghoul on the inside. Every inch of the man's mug was a mile of the Mojave, burnt up and dying. Twitch made up his mind and turned to speak to the man with the guitar, "The last song... good but sad. We got... plenty of sadness, plenty of pain. Know anything happy? A moment's smile... 's worth an hour's tears."

To anyone wandering the waste, sun is a dark and cold bastard. Which is an irony considering it's actually purpose. And today it felt like it was determined to be even more of a bastard than usual as Thomas made my way up the broken street from the eastern entry to freeside, looking at the people seeking refuge here in New Vegas's front lawn. The sounds of a sad song came from somewhere around the old Mormon fort and filled the air.
Tom had to push a couple of elderly men out his way in an attempt to cut past them. "hoi! have some respect for your elders, zombie" one of the oldest of them yelled after him. "I am 19 decades older than you" Thomas lied. The man looked embarrassed and turned back to his friends. Tom, being pleased with his argument smirked a little and tried to hum along to the tune going from the fort. but since he didn't know the song he ended up missing pretty much every note.
He rounded the corner and saw the crowd glaring at something further down the street. There was another ghoul there, standing over some kid. The ghoul was dissembling a gun.
"why would he do that? The legion is killing people all willy-nilly, there's a deathclaw nest just south of here and the freeside thugs seem to grow right out of the concrete" the little voice in his head complained. As Thomas had a mental debate with himself the ghoul walked over to the HEY! there's where the music was coming from! There was a man standing on the street opposite the old Mormon fort with a guitar. Seemed like he already had a fan. he studied the singer, ghoul and kid for almost a minute as he sucked in the singer's song. It was really good, he didn't know why but it kind of stung in his heart but in a good way. He felt relaxed and calm, there were something almost fatherly safe with the song.
When the song was over the ghoul spoke to the singer. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Tom walked over and put a few of his caps in the upside down hat in front of the singer. And then, realizing that the crowd had now locked him in that spot for a few minutes and that he would now have to socialize, his brain panicked and scrabbled for words for a moment before giving up.

"Lovely song" he mubbmeled and tipped his hat to the singer before giving an awkward nod to the blond kid and the other ghoul.

"The last song... good but sad. We got... plenty of sadness, plenty of pain. Know anything happy? A moment's smile... 's worth an hour's tears."

"god bless you sir..."

"Lovely song"

I look up at the old ghoul "thank you sir" I replied nodding and then turned to another ghoul as he drops some caps in the hat "thanks", suddenly my eyes look over at the children and then saw the rat they were chasing "no" I said shaking my head and putting my guitar, standing up I easily tower over the kid by more than a few feet, the two ghouls not so much and all three of them would see under my a black duster that I was wearing armor, I had two knee pads, quite a few straps, one shoulder guard, a bandolier across my chest, a belt with two hostlers equipped with two old shining revolvers and most notable the armor on my chest which was that of a medieval breastplate with a big cross on it, apart from that I was also wearing dark brown jeans, brown boots and a white shirt under my metal breastplate, which of course only I knew only.

"watch my stuff for a minute, I'll be right back" I said coldly walking past them, quick as lightening I pull out the revolver in my right hostler, shooting the rat right between it's eyes I then do a fancy trick with the revolver spinning backwards on my finger before hostler it again I walk in the path of children before they try to run over and eat it "don't ever think about eating that thing.......here take this it should keep from going hungry from awhile, go Mick and Ralph's and buy something to eat from Mick and make sure you share between you, now run along" I said handing one kid 200 caps before walking over to where the rat lay dead, picking it up by the back of it's neck I throw it as hard as I can up on a random roof.

I then walk back to my stuff, "kids eh? would eat a rat at the drop of a hat to surive, it's sad what the world has come to" I said sighing as I pick up my guitar, sitting back I look up at the kid "now what was it you want? a happy song?? I think I got just the thing" I said to him playing more lively tune

"Well, you wonder why I always dress in black?, Why you never see bright colors on my back?, And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone?. Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on. I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down, Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town, I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime, But is there because he's a victim of the times. I wear the black for those who never read, Or listened to the words that Jesus said, About the road to happiness through love and charity, Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.

Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose, In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes, But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back, Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black. I wear it for the sick and lonely old, For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold, I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been, Each week we lose a hundred fine young men. And, I wear it for the thousands who have died, Believen' that the Lord was on their side, I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died, Believen' that we all were on their side.

Well, there's things that never will be right I know, And things need changin' everywhere you go, But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right, You'll never see me wear a suit of white. Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day, And tell the world that everything's OK, But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back, 'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black."

I sang with a more alive and happy voice that was even loud than the first time I sang, hell I bet all people in upper Freeside like the Atomic Wrangler mangers, the Van Graffs, The Kings and maybe even The King himself heard me and I smiled as I was enjoying singing this song.

There were two large black men lurking around Freeside that day, keeping to themselves for the most part. They were dressed like your average wastelander, but they walked like soldiers. They were walking to the Old Mormon Fort when they noticed a small group listening to music outside. One of them cast a contemptful glance at the rot-faces as the other banged authoritatively on the gate. They rushed inside when it opened and went to find a certain doctor.

"Aye!" one of them called out to a nurse. "Wey is doc-tah Charlie?"

The Nurse turned to look at them and suspected they were looking for trouble, since they obviously didn't need any medical attention themselves.

"Who wants to know?" She shot back.

"Das nona yah damn bussines. Tell us wey he is."

"Alright, I don't have time for this. Security! Take these punks out of here."

Two guards approached, and one of them put his hand on the shouting man's shoulder. Before he knew it, an iron like grip closed around his own hand and he felt two of his fingers snap. He cried out in pain and the two men with accents took off out of the gate before anyone started shooting at them.

Twitch frowned somewhat as the man with the guitar interfered with the children's hunt. Giving them caps, that was nice enough, but there would not always be a kindly stranger ligering around, willing to offer them succor. They'd need to learn to feed themselves. Catch the rat, break it's neck, bleed it, skin it, soak the meat in three parts good water, 1 parts RadAway to clean the meat, grill some, smoke the rest for preservation. That was the way it should've been. To just toss away a meal.... Where was this man from that he could disregard the presence of food so callously. As the man returned and condemned the kids' behavior, Twitch shook his head sadly, "A waste of food...."

Perhaps he didn't have the stomach for the basest form of survival, but the music, the music was worth it. The next song the man played was far more upbeat, full of life and something like hope, even when it spoke of dark things. Twitch didn't quite understand it all, but from what he did grasp, it seemed the song painted the singer a living memorial, a constant reminder of all of the world's ills. Twitch wondered at that, suspected that this might have been a tune from the old world, when people had so much they could forget that others had next to nothing. It seemed difficult to imagine anyone forgetting the evils of the world after the bombs fell, but then again.... Twitch's gaze turned towards the bright lights of the strips. Perhaps their were souls there, so caught up in the glitz and glam of New Vegas' lights, that they actually forgot about the crosses springing up all over the Mojave. The thought was a chilling one. What would become of a man so blinded by the city lights he didn't see the charging bull's horns until it was too late?

The song spoke of the Man Jesus. Twitch had heard the name before. Some of the older Followers still held the old religon, and Twitch has met traders from New Caanan who followed the Way as well. Those who held to the old cult always seemed to bandy about words like 'salvation,' 'heaven,' 'hell.' Twitch wasn't really made to philosophize, but that was okay. Twitch knew the truth. Truth was, there was no heaven and hell was the slave pit, if you wanted a paradise in these days, you'd have to make it with your own hands. If you were going to make a heaven, you needed people who were kind for the sake of kindness, people who hoped for something better, people who healed the world, people like Sammi, like the Followers of the Apocalypse. And you needed people like Twitch, who cut away the rot.

The music burned bright in Twitch's thoughts until a sudden commotion across the street caught his attention. Two men, dark skinned, large were banging on the Old Mormon Fort gate, demanding something. They were dressed normally enough, but they held themselves differently than most, like coiled springs, men ready for violence. They gained entry to the Follower sanctuary only to come fleeing out a few moments later, shouts of alarm ringing out from the fort. It was all the provocation Twitch needed. Something flickered across his features, not quite rage, not quite alarm, but a definite shift, as though a switch had been thrown in the back of his head. He nodded slightly to the guitarist, but his eyes followed the fleeing men, and when he spoke it was as though he drew the words from some far off, distant place within himself, "Thank you for the music, I hope all goes well with you."

By the time the last few words left his lips, Twitch was already moving. Within half a heartbeat, he was gone. It was his own little trick, his own brand of magic, fading from people's notice, erasing himself from any scene. Most of it was in his manner, a way of drawing himself inward, and the rest lay in footsteps that never made a sound. He skirted through the back alleys, the map of Freeside he held in his head acting as a guide. The men's movements weren't difficult to predict, there were only so many places to run. By the time they'd rounded the first corner out of site of the Old Mormon Fort, Twitch was waiting for them, hanging out of the window of a burned out building, five feet from the men and staring. That stare was calm and placid, the young man's posture oddly relaxed, a readiness lingering there, "What buisness do you have with the Followers?"

"What buisness do you have with the Followers?"

The two men took 10mm Pistols from their belts, but they did not aim at the white man yet.

"None dat you wahnt to get involved wit. So unless yah know wey Doctah Charlie is, yah bes' keep stepin' bagwan."

The vices of alcohol, flesh, and drugs practically hung in the air of Gomorrah like a mist. Any smart man could tell why Mr. House had picked the Omertas when he was making the 3 families of the Strip. They weren't as smart as the White glove Society, and they weren't as charismatic as the Chairmen, but they had one thing going for them; they were hatchet men. The securitrons are a great security force, but House needed people with human intelligence to handle the dirty laundry of New Vegas. The Omertas were the lowest common denominator, but they were also a necessary evil to create a place like New Vegas in the desert.

Honestly though, Brother Saturday didn't like Vegas very much. Everything moved to fast for his tastes. He thought the city was like a drug. It can put you on top of the world in an moment, and then take away everything you ever had the next. The people of the Mojave spent all of their time trying to survive life, rather than live it. In the Bayou Wasteland, things were much more simple. He missed being able to drift down the canals on a skif breathing the Loa Dust and feeling the spirit of the world around him. But there was work to do in New Vegas, and the Baron Samedi would not let him forget. Soon, Brother Saturday would eat the heart of the Great Khan, and all the strength of his legacy would belong to the Sons of Samedi.

Nero and Brother Saturday were leaning on the balcony rail, watching everyone hurry around the game floor below. They had been quiet until Saturday spoke up.

"Yah should come visit New Orleans fren'. If yah do, yah might nevah leave."

For three years this town has stayed silent. It's roads are only walked by the occasional traveller who scurries through the streets like a disobedient child, the misguided prospectors who still think the rotted corpse may provide some scraps and of course, the Legion patrols, one coming through now.

It was the Legion that silenced Nipton, an early example of their brutality. More people should have taken notice, done something, anything. It was three years since Nipton died and three years since the Legion won. It seems longer. I'm struggling to remember what the Mojave was like before the Legion.

James Harewood readied his rifle in anticipation of the coming fight. He could just let the Legion patrol pass, but he hadn't done that for a long time, the work begun.

A Contubernia, eight Legionnaires led by a Decanus. The Legionnaires look new and inexperienced, that makes the job easier. With the Legion it has always been a matter of cutting the head.

James let the patrol move ahead of him, keeping himself pressed against a crumbling wall, he moved between two buildings and onto the corner of the main road. I could get two here before they realise what's happening. Two sniper shots, one hit the Decanus in the back of the head, the other struck the Legionnaire next to him, both were dead before they hit the ground. James darted back away from the road, swapping his sniper rifle for his pistol. The grunts aren't used to thinking for themselves, they'll panic and I can pick them off. James did a bit of scurrying himself to move between buildings and get further down the street. The Legionnaires were spread out now, forming a circle around their dead comrades, machetes at the ready. James stepped back into the street again and raised his gun. Three down, four and five are bigger targets when they're running right at me, six almost gets close enough to switch me to a knife fight... almost. Seven and eight will require something more personal. Pistol holstered, James took his knife out and held it in a standard grip, sidestepping to force the Legionnaires to come at him single file. Legionnaires often jump into the attack, dodge and counter them. Seven leapt at James, swinging his machete in a wide arc, James took a step forward and went to his knee, thrusting the knife as he did so. Seven gave the slightest squeak of pain as the knife went in between his ribs, James got back on his feet and switched to a reverse grip. Eight yelped in pain as James sidestepped his vertical slash and plunged his knife into the back of eight's neck Cut the throat, make it certain. James complied with his own advice, grabbing the falling Legionnaire by the top of his head and making a messy cut to the jugular.

Eight Legionnaires dead, a good days work. They had little in the way of provisions, that which they did have James ate in place of his own rations. As he rested his gaze fixed upon the crosses that lined the roads, some were old, starting to rot and splinter, others were fresh, put up to meet demand for victims. A thought crossed his mind that the dead patrol should be put on the crosses as a warning but he decided against it. Many of the old crosses simply had skeletal remains lashed to them and it would be too much hard work to replace them with Legionnaires. Besides, another patrol might be through soon and James would have to be long gone. Taking his equipment, James hiked into the hills around Nipton, heading north towards Hidden Valley.

I was about to leave when dark skinned individuals came pounding on the old Mormon fort gates. They seemed determined to find someone, my initial thought was maybe someone who owed them something. Wouldn't at all be surprised, It seemed everyone was in debt to someone nowadays. Deep down I felt obligated to confront the men, cause I knew the last thing the Followers wanted were some petty thugs trying to track down someone who owed them something or otherwise may have done something that angered them. I was about to approach them but before I knew it they entered the old fort, that was wen I did somewhat of a jog to the place. Almost as quickly as I arrive they came out fleeing. they didn't seem to notice me. And at the tip of my eye I notice the young man that also took a liking to the Music slipped away, maybe something to do with the men? So I quietly fallow him through the back alleys, maybe more so out of curiosity then anything which was odd. I normaly try not to involve myself in such matters, I learned throughout my long life that it can save you allot of trouble.
But for some reason deep down I felt the need to figure out what was going on in this case; couldn't quite explain it. Eventually the young man stops as if waiting for someone only moments later the same men from earlier came by. The seemed to be talking. Howard you old fool, what are you doing?!?! my mind screamed. But when I saw the men draw 10mm guns everything seemed to fade "HEY...!!!" I screamed "Now Im sure their is a better way of dealing with this...so, how about we talk this over like proper men". DAMN YOU HOWARD I thought to myself.

John noticed the two thugs book out of the Fort but thought of it as nothing, when he saw The Kid and The Old Ghoul go after them he knew something was up and decided to follow them and putting his guitar down, his hat back on and the caps he earned into his pocket, when the thugs drew one 10mm pistol each and John knew enough was enough and had to jump in, at this point strangely the song that's always playing in upper freeside suddenly changes and is replaced by another but this one was more slow but more intense as it picked up.

It set him in the mood perfectly if this turned in a gunfight, from somewhere behind the ghoul who was trying to calm things down, the sound of a match being lit, the burning of a cigarette being lit by the match and then the match being put out all seem to happen at once, "I think it's in your best interests that you listen to our ghoul friend here" he said cold as ice as he walked forward, stood next to the Ghoul and let out a breath of smoke and looked as if he'll kill them without a second thought if they so much as stepped out of line, pulling his coat back behind the hostlers revealing his revolvers and cocks the hammers back they both make loud clicks as they do

The two southerners turned too look at the rot-face that called out at them. They rose their guns in sync and yelled,

"Get dey fuck outtah 'ere sala, dis don't concern you."

Their fingers were tight on the triggers, and they were looking around for a way out. They would prefer not to garner anymore unwanted attention, but what did they expect, there is always trouble brewing in Freeside.


Brother Saturday had a special area of the Gomorrah basement sealed off for his use only. Big Sal and Nero never asked him what it was for, but they have their own ideas. Saturday stepped into the room, and began stripping down to his under-garments, quietly chanting to himself. Once he was done, he walked to the back of the room where there was a strange looking alter. the base seemed to be made of wood, but there was some kind of backboard woven out of thick vines that rose up from it. There were flowers with black petals budding out of the vine arch in several places which glowed with radiation, and an arrangement of bones laid out beneath it. At the center was a human skull.

From under the alter, Brother Saturday pulled out a small bowl with red face paint in it, which he carefully applied to his face as he began chanting again. Next, he took out a jar of mushrooms he had brought all the way from the Bayou. He took out three, placed them on the alter, and began mashing them with the skull, all the while chanting,

"Baron Dimansh, ban m 'fòs nan move lespri yo ki antoure kote sa a. Ranpli m 'ak juju ou."

Finally, he took hold of one of the glowing flowers, and tipped it downwards, allowing a dark viscous nectar to pour down onto the ground mushrooms. Saturday mixed the nectar into the mushroom with his fingers and steadily began chanting louder as he scraped the concoction from the alter into an empty bowl. Once he had it all, he took one of the candles from the alter and dipped it into the bowl, setting the surface of the mixture on fire, which burned a bright blue.

It began emitting a thick, dark smoke, which Saturday inhaled deeply. Suddenly, the chanting stopped. His vision blurred as the voices of spirits rang in his ears. The voices spoke to him of death and things beyond the world he knew. He was the only man left on the face of the earth who knew the ancient way to speak directly to the Loa, and to his people he was a prophet.

The men's accent sounded quite strange, a type of dialect I haven't heard in years. Slowly I placed my hand on the grip of my 9mm holstered along my belt. With my other hand I put it up in a calm down matter. "This doesn't need to get ugly son, we just wanna know whats going on" I take a deep breath "For starters, might wanna explain why you were yelling for someone earlier back at the fort". Howard your gonna get yourself killed said my inner voice.

Tom always meant, though, people had a tendency to disagree, that you could taste the there is in the air. It smell like a human being burned, a mix of sweat and heat that made your senses sharpen and pick up all the foul sent of the waste. And now the stench of roasting meat illuminated from the gates of fort. A little further down the street, standing on a makeshift plateau made of trashcans and mailboxes stood a ghoul with a sniper rifle and just waiting for one of the thugs do make a mistake.
The waste had wiped the old world's values of the map and replaced it with sadistic and savage madness. At the moment, America was a land consisting of sand, radiation and vices. And the few virtues it had was now close to national treasures. New Vegas was a virtue, children in the waste was a sad virtue, Hoover dam had been a virtue but helping an underdog was a rare virtue that the waste had yet to kill. And ghouls weren't just the underdogs. They were the lowest of lows in the waste. Even supermutants got some respect. And right now, after seeing the dead ghouls laying massacred in the mountains above Novac, feral or sane, everyone there had been gunned down indiscriminately. He was angry. Angry because a ghoul who were just trying to help a kid was now being threatened.
"The waste doesn't need bullies, It is fucked up enough already" had a girl he had arrested for public disturbance on the strip back in his NCR days yelled at him as she was put in handcuffs. Those words now echoed inside his mind.

"Nice gun" ha mentally noted as he made his decision and focus on keeping the cross hairs in between the eyes of the thug on the right. The guitarist just said something but kept the rifle focused, if they had been friendly, they would have dropped the guns by now. And seeing how the ghoul had gotten backup and was now getting his own gun. Things were probably going to get really ugly really fast.

"Get dey fuck outtah 'ere sala, dis don't concern you."

John tensed and fast as lightening pull out both of his guns as the thugs put their fingers on the triggers and points one at each thug "it made his and my concern when you pointed your guns at a kid" he said gesturing to Howard who John knew was doing this for the same reasons as him, he noticed the another ghoul point a rifle at the one on the right "Welcome to The Party Friend you're just in time too, we're about to start handing out crisps, cakes, beer and whiskery" he said sarcastically as he smirked, tipping his hat with his left hand at Tom still holding the revolver and then lets out another breath of smoke.

Thomas gave the guitarist a smile, made a hand gesture that looked like a half ass military salute and did ... something, with his eyes that would have been a wink if he had had eyelids. He entertained himself with the thought of taking him up on his suggestion and get a drink. For a moment he debated whether or not to invite the 3 to a drink at the wrangler later.

The three had followed; the guitarist, the two ghouls, all of the last moment's chance companions. Twitch had heard the first ghoul's approach, there simply hadn't been enough time to ditch him and position himself for the conflict with the two thugs. The others must have followed the ghoul. That three strangers would be so quick to lend him aid... the thought filled with a brief warmth, a little spark of hope, but it made what came next all the more difficult. Twitch had reached a decision and that decision would have consequences. He hoped his own run of poor luck didn't stain these others, or bring them too much harm. The doubt flickered bright in the boy's chest for a split second, but never did it slow his mind or his muscles, there would be no hesitation. Twitch had reached a decision and he knew what much come next, had known what to do before the men drew their weapons, had known what to do as soon as he'd heard them speak. Only one group of folks in New Vegas spoke like that....

It would have been nice to say that Twitch only ever lent his services to the Followers, such an arrangement would have suited his odd brand of morality quite fine. But the world was not a nice place, and Twitch had needs that the Followers couldn't and wouldn't fulfill. The easy road to chems in Freeside (at least, chems that wouldn't leave you a dribbling idiot like the slag Dixon sold) was through contract work for the Garrett twins. They were far from pleasant, but of all the psychopathic brother/sister teams in New Vegas, they were perhaps the most reasonable. They'd learned how to use Twitch most effectively in a matter of days, and noted his rather pleasant impact on their profit margin. The road to chems didn't stop at the Garretts, though. Their operation was small scale. Used to be they filtered in larger orders through the Khans, but those days were over. Now the only tap left open... belonged to the Omertas. Twitch had only ever stepped foot on the Strip a handful of times, and most of those trips involved a stop off at Gomorrah. Of all the madness of light and sound that made up the Strip, two things from Gomorrah were burned into his mind:

The emptiness and fear in the eyes of the whores, beneath the beauty and the sex.

And the man dressed in red.

Twitch had never spoke to the tall dark man garbed in clothes dyed red with the blood of his foes (or at least, so said the more imaginative of the Omerta's low level thugs). The red man was too high up the food chain to deal with the work Twitch was hired for, at least not directly. He'd only seen him in passing, stealing glances, but glances were enough. There was... an allure about the man, an appeal, something in the exotic, smooth tones of his voice. He was fascinating to behold, fascinating like a viper, fascinating like a cazador grooming itself, something made beautiful because of its lethality. He seemed the sort of man who's words dripped with delicious venom, and he wore the power he commanded like a grand robe, bare for all to see. Twitch had seen grins like those that graced the face of the man in red. He'd seen their mirror in the maddened eyes of raider gang leaders, heard it in the deathly chill tones of Vulpes Inculta's voice, felt it beneath the burning gaze of Caesar himself. Twitch normally didn't judge man based on the stories told about them, but in the case of the man in red, the man who called himself Brother Saturday, Twitch suspected that even the most vile of rumors wasn't as black as the truth.

Twitch reached his decision: when the viper bore its fangs, you broke them or suffered its venom.

The two thugs lost their focus, their eyes flickering over the lad's unexpected allies. Their gaze drifted for a mere instant, and in that instant Twitch vanished.

Six Years Ago

A dozen rusted blades moved through the air in perfect unison, a weaving pattern of death and precision. The dog masked humans wielded them in eerie silence. Forward, back, thrust, execute. It was a dance of sorts, a dance with no music. They'd done it for hours and would do it for hours more, until their muscles trembled and their bones ached. Some of them would die dancing. So be it, those that survived could only look forward to turning those rusted blades against one another, the esurient dance relentless in its thirst for blood. 40 had woken this day, only 24 continued to dance, only 12 would sleep and rise again.

One sound punctuated the brutal practice. The gravel of a man's voice, loud and rumbling, a voice the dogs could feel in their guts. He didn't wear the uniform of the Legion, even as his voice gave praise to Caesar. He was Frumentarius, he was Master. The dogs were his sons and daughters, he trained them, fed them, beat them, and killed them when they failed. He'd broken each of them, broken them with beatings, sleepless nights, chems, and mind games. And now he moved amongst their rusted blades, their shadows a hairsbreadth from his face. He knew no fear, knew they could not draw his blood. They could not defy him. Adversus solem ne loquitor. Don't speak against the sun.

"Behold the Dogs of Mars! You are nothing! To you belongs no glory, to you belongs no joy, to you belongs no salvation! You are beneath the greenest recruit, you are beneath the slathering mongrel. You are Cerberus! You are teeth at the enemy throat! Abyssus abyssum invocat! Hell calls hell and you are hell's teeth!

Behold the Dogs of Mars!

Behold the Dogs of Caesar!

Behold the Silentium!

Behold the Silence.

The first thug's pistol clattered to the ground, his fingers numb and flaccid. His head lolled forward, and as death clouded his eyes he caught a glance at the queer flower that sprouted from his sternum, a flower that looked an awful lot like a foot of sharp, fine steel. The second thug never saw what happened to his partner. He never so much as turned his head. He heard two dull thumps, and all his world was pain. Two silenced .45 slugs had torn into the back of his legs with surgical precision and left large, bloody holes where his kneecaps should of been. He made a sound like a dying animal and started to fall forward before jerking to a stop. He felt steely fingers tighten around his wrist and then... a moment of nothing, and then... a return to the world of white hot agony, the arm holding his gun now bent behind him at a horrific angle, shoulder dislocated, humerus snapped in two. Twitch let him drop, pulled his sword from the first thug's corpse without ceremony and cut through the muscles and tendons that connected the second thug's last good arm to his shoulder. Face down and floundering, Freeside's dirt and gravel muffled Haitian flavored screams.

Behold the silence between two heart beats, behold the sight of two fangs broken. Twitch went to work with a startling sort of nonchalance. He ignored what remained of the second thug for now, wiped the blood from his blade, sheathed his weapons, and set about looting the first corpse. He stashed the two pistols in his sack, and rifling through the dead thugs pockets, stowed away a few caps, chems and a combat knife. By the time he'd turned his attention to the second man he'd broken, the screams had died down to a low, continuous moaning. Twitch dragged him into the nearest husk of a burnt out building, the same crumbling structure that'd helped him play the ghost. He propped the man up on what was left of the building's staircase and knelt, knelt so the man could see his eyes and know that the words that came next were absolute truth. Twitch's words came from the far off place at the back of his skull, hollow and with no trace of stammer, "You are going to die. Tell me what the Sons of Samedi want with the Followers, and I will kill you. That death will come quickly, with dignity. Keep silent, lie to me, and they will kill you."

Twitch turned the man's head to the dark corners of the building, shadowy places full of odd scrabbling noises and chattering. Several pairs of glowing blue eyes looked back at the odd pair. Rats, giant rats, "They are hungry, they smell your blood. More will come. They know you cannot fight them. You will die, they will feed. Speak, choose, me or them."

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