Disclaimer: Fallout is owned by Bethesda.
001
Across the dry ground stood a hunched figure. I was never sure what possessed me to trail the robe-obscured being across the breadth of the United States, yet there I was. Beyond the figure rested a great stone ring, some relic of ancient times that hadn't quite been worn away by the desert.
"It's quite amazing, really," The figure spoke at last, his voice bearing a growling tone that didn't quite sound human. "When last this portal was used, it carried the man I followed back in time. For me, it seems to have done so much more."
A soft hum began to fill my senses, more felt than heard, and I got the distinct impression that the figure was smiling under his hood's shadow.
"You intend to follow me, don't you?" He asked, stepping toward the ring of stone. The air in the ring's opening seemed to shimmer and shift into shapes that my mind couldn't quite make sense of, but that didn't stop the figure from moving closer and closer to it. "This goes beyond mere curiosity. Some part of you already knows who I am, what my presence represents. Your conscious mind just won't accept the possibility."
The figure let out a coughing bark of a laugh and stepped into the ring... then vanished from existence, as quick as that. Without any forethought, I chased after him, right into that field of impossibility. There was darkness, then redness and whiteness. I could feel the straining of time and the cosmos itself trying to decide what to do with me. I was weighed and judged by forces that mortal minds were not meant to know or understand.
After what felt like an eternity my senses finally reported something I could understand. Wherever I'd ended up was cold, and I could feel the shifting grit of sand under me as I slowly rose into a crouch. I was still in the Mojave desert, but something was definitely off about it. Night had fallen, and a large full moon illuminated the world in a ghostly silver light. There was a crackle of electricity, and a tingling in my limbs. The sand around me lit up with repeated electric discharges, creating small pockets of muddy glass. Once the lightning effects stopped, I rose to my feet and immediately felt another difference.
A quick examination showed that my body had been 'reset' to average physical condition, and I couldn't feel the tightness in my chest caused by a deformed heart and lungs at birth. Someone, or something had fixed years of medical problems and a sedentary lifestyle. But for what? All I did was follow that robed guy through the ring. That was hardly an achievement...
"Hey, you hear that?" I heard a rough voice say nearby. It didn't sound like anybody I'd want to meet in a dark alley... or a desert, for that matter. I dropped into a low crouch and turned in the direction the voices came from. Lo and behold, there were two men standing by a campfire and rusted camper. Both were dressed in the torn and dirtied remains of some sort of police uniform. Even from that distance, I could make out the 'NCRCF' letters standing out on the back. I could only assume these guys were escaped convicts who had managed to escape custody and take out a few prison guards on the way. Only one was looking my way, and I could make out the wooden handle of a kitchen knife sticking out of his belt. The other had a handgun tucked into his back pocket, marking him as the priority target.
I flinched and shook my head, wondering just when I'd decided that I was going to confront these guys.
"Probably just a coyote," The Pistol-packer said, "The powder charges will take care of it if it gets too close."
Powder charges? I thought, then shifted my focus from the men to the ground around their campsite. They were very hard to spot, but I did see a few rusted tin cans with something strapped to them by electrical tape. If they weren't makeshift proximity mines, I'd eat my boots.
"And what happens if something else shows up after the coyote blows the charge? Coyotes ain't got shit on some of the stuff around these parts. Man, you've got a gun, go shoot it," Knifey said. The pistol-packer released a stream of curses and turned in my direction, checked the ground, and then started moving in my direction. I wasn't sure how long I had before he would see me, but I remained as still as possible and hoped for the best.
My body tensed like a coiled spring as the convict came closer and closer without actually seeing me, his knife-wielding compatriot watching nervously from the campfire. The distance shortened more and more. At last I sprang into an uppercut that made the man stumble backwards, clutching his jaw. Ignoring the shout of his companion, I quickly followed up with a basic CQC takedown that drove the man headfirst into the sand. Hearing running footsteps, I grabbed the pistol from the downed convict's pocket and leveled it at the approaching knife-wielder. The dirt-covered Caucasian froze in his tracks, knife held over his head in an almost comical fashion. Too bad nobody was laughing. Closest I got was a grunt of pain as I stomped the back of my first victim's head to make sure he stayed down.
"Drop your weapon!" I commanded, flipping off the pistol's safety and taking it in a proper aiming stance. The convict complied, dropping his kitchen knife and raising his hands above his head.
"Look man, don't kill me! Whatever you want, just don't kill me!" He pleaded.
"Move away from the knife," I continued. Once the man had complied and moved far enough away, I advanced, keeping mental track of the route used by the downed man. In all truth, I was acting a lot more confident than I felt. Everything up to that point had been pure luck. I'd learned everything I knew about CQC from Metal Gear Solid, for goodness' sake! I kept the pistol aimed as I reached down and retrieved the knife. As I expected, it was a chef's knife you might find in any well-stocked kitchen, but it would serve as a close range weapon until I could find something more suitable.
"Hands on your head, down on your knees," I continued my instruction. The convict hastened to comply, which made me wonder just how he'd managed to escape prison if he was this meek. I heard something shift and click behind me, and saw my prisoner's eyes widen in delight. Instinct took over as I turned and blocked an overhand strike from the first convict, who had retrieved a collapsible impact baton from one of his other pockets. He wasn't in very good shape after our previous scuffle, with blood running from his mouth and a few bruises starting to form. I disengaged from the block and took a step back, turning so I could keep both convicts in my sight.
"You don't just fuck with the Powder Gangers and walk away," The armed convict spat, charging at me once more with fury in his eyes. My irritation reached an all-time high, prompting me to pull the pistol's trigger. At that range, it was damn near impossible to miss. The baton-wielding convict collapsed like a sack of bricks, and the other one took off running. I debated pulling the trigger on him as well, but held my fire and moved to investigate my kill. It was strange how little I cared for the fact that I'd killed a man. Perhaps it was due to his status as a murderer and criminal, or I'd end up feeling the remorse later. After confirming that he was well and truly dead, I stripped everything out of the man's pockets. The results were mostly standard, a spare magazine and a few loose cartridges of 9mm ammunition for the pistol. However, I also came across a small pouch of what appeared to be bottle caps. That tickled at my memory for some reason, but I was still too pumped with adrenaline to think clearly. I pocketed the caps and climbed into the camper, giving it a quick search as well. More ammunition was found there, including a few shotgun shells, and a bulletproof vest with the same NCRCF marking as the convicts' acquired uniforms. There was no lack of dynamite sticks either. I came out of the camper with at least six, and found two more lying on a dirty table nearby with an unopened bottle of water.
The more I investigated and searched the area, the more I discovered that this wasn't close to where I'd last been. There was a highway nearby, but it was cracked, torn, with the ruined wood of houses and rusted wrecks of cars all about. I'd traded a desert for a post-apocalyptic wasteland from the looks of things. Letting out a long, annoyed sigh, I began to head up the road with a pistol and knife held low, but ready.
It wasn't too long before I came upon a small shack with a rusted-out plane behind it. I could hear people talking out front and moved to investigate, keeping to the stealthy approach in case they were more escaped convicts. Sure enough, there they were, standing around like a bunch of idiots. Three total by my count, including the one who ran away before. Aww, how adorable, he was telling them about me! Not that it would save them.
"Came out of fucking nowhere, like a ghost or some shit! Took out O'Brady before he could even draw his gun! I only barely got away."
"So you ran your ass away like the big fucking coward you are," One of the others snorted, "Wouldn't surprise me if it was one of those NCR bastards. Maybe a Ranger."
These two were packing guns as well. One with a knockoff Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol like my looted piece, and the other with a bolt-action rifle that looked like it had seen better days. From the lack of camaraderie between these new enemies and the escapee, I wouldn't be able to use a human shield approach. There was no time to be merciful. If I didn't kill all three, there was a high likelihood one would get back up to try and kill me, just like last time.
"If he was a Ranger, that means the NCR's trying to pick us off one by one. Someone should go back to the Correctional facility and report this to Eddie."
"Not right now, it's dark! He could be hiding anywhere!" The coward practically screamed, "Behind that rock, or that bush, or..."
I couldn't resist. I slipped up behind the coward and put my knife to his throat. I dropped into a cheesy French accent and said,
"Right behind you."
The world froze for a split second as the other two convicts just stared with wide eyes. I smirked viciously and tore my blade across the coward's throat, then slipped around his falling body and put two bullets through the chest of the convict with the pistol. The rifleman was having a bit of trouble getting his weapon unslung from across his back. It would seem he'd tightened the strap a little too tightly. I pulled the trigger one last time and watched him fall. I made short work of scavenging their supplies, retrieving more 9mm bullets and two magazines, the loaded pistol itself, as well as the rifle and extra magazines for it as well. There were also more caps to be had, and I was fast running out of space to carry things. It wouldn't do to leave the shack unexplored though, especially if there was another 'Powder Ganger' in there.
I kicked open the door and stormed in, pistol aimed at chest level and knife at the ready, but there was nobody there, the only light coming from a single flickering bulb on the ceiling. Along one side of the room was a few stacks of tires and empty oil drums. The back wall sported a row of four lockers. Only one of those seemed to be in any decent condition. In the middle of the shack was a desk with a Ham Radio and some sort of self-contained computer terminal on it. The terminal refused to power on when I tried it, and I got nothing but static from the radio. It would have been nice to get some information from someone that wasn't trying to kill me.
I also found another bottle cap on the desk, this one with a bright blue star on it. Figuring it was something special, I made sure to keep it separated from the others. The key to the lockers was hiding under the cap, and I quickly put it to use. For my scavenging, I came out a box of 9mm ammunition richer, found a few more caps, some shotgun shells, and a single-barrel break-action shotgun. It was in pretty good shape as far as I could tell. Like most of the weaponry I'd found, it could use a good cleaning, but they'd all do their jobs if I needed to use them. Since the shotgun lacked any sort of strap, I was stuck using it as my primary weapon instead of my pistol. I wasn't confident in my skill with a shotgun, and the limited ammunition capacity wasn't doing it any favors.
Shaking my head to clear it of those thoughts, I left the shack and stopped dead in my tracks. A woman was there, inspecting the bodies of the Powder Gangers. She was wearing some sort of leather outfit, and had a bolt-action rifle in her hands like the one I had slung over my shoulder. I was caught off guard as a beautiful husky padded up out of the darkness and sat on her haunches at the woman's heel. The dog's bright blue eyes watched me closely, but she seemed more confused than wary.
"Heard the gunshots all the way up in Goodsprings," The woman said, finally straightening up and looking at me. She glanced down at her dog and quirked an eyebrow, then looked back at me. "Cheyenne seems to like you, so I guess you can't be all that bad."
"Wouldn't have killed them if I could avoid it, but they likely wouldn't have extended the same courtesy," I said. She smiled and gave an amused snort.
"You don't have to justify it to me. The Powder Gangers have been nothing but trouble since they showed up. We don't get nearly as many merchants wandering this way because of them."
"That's gotta suck," I muttered, "Look, I'd love to keep up this chat, but it'd probably be better to continue it in friendlier territory."
The woman nodded and slung her rifle over her back.
"Yeah, you've got a point there. Goodsprings is just up the road a ways," She began walking, and Cheyenne followed obediently with a wagging tail. "I'm Sunny Smiles, by the way."
I considered for a moment whether to use my 'real' name or not. In the end, I decided to use the alias I'd chosen for myself long ago, back when life was still simple, and a computer screen filled most of my days.
"Call me Rain. Rain Nero," I introduced myself, jogging a few steps to catch up.
Walking into Goodsprings for the first time gave an odd sense of nostalgia, and an ache in my heart that I couldn't begin to explain. Sunny's destination, and mine by extension, was the Prospector Saloon, which sported a bright neon sign announcing its name to the world. A trio of motorcycles in drab green rested out front, but they weren't of any model I recognized. The saloon's door opened up and out stepped an wizened old man in a straw hat and black overalls, a well-worn revolver on his hip. His white beard gave him a friendly and disarming appearance, much like Santa Claus.
"Surprised you're still up, Pete," Sunny said, "Found out what was making the racket and brought him home."
"Was just about to gather up a posse to make sure you were alright," Pete spoke in a gruff voice and country accent, "What sort of trouble was he in? Geckos?"
"Powder Gangers," Sunny corrected, "They set up at the old sky diving place, and a bit further south, best I can tell."
"Bah, nothin' good can come of them being around," Pete grumbled, lowering himself into one of the chairs on the saloon's front porch. "Those Great Khan fellers weren't much better. At least they headed back north already."
My tired mind wasn't picking up on names and information nearly as well as it needed to. I was missing something big, important about this whole thing. Cheyenne gave a small whine and nudged my leg, drawing the attention of Sunny and Pete.
"Kid seems almost dead on his feet. Get him inside and settled down. We'll talk more later," Pete chuckled. After a nod of agreement, Sunny led me into the saloon. Only the bartender was around, polishing a few glasses and fiddling with a busted radio. I took the chance to get a look around. Half of the saloon's main space consisted of the bar, with a few booths set up, and a recreation area that had a pool table and jukebox merrily playing the type of music I'd expect from the 50's or early 60's. The two sections were divided by a central wall.
"Just drop your gear over at one of the tables. Cheyenne'll make sure nobody touches it," Sunny said, waving me off towards the recreational side. While I moved to one of the cheap metal tables with Cheyenne in tow, Sunny went to have a talk with the bartender. Slowly but surely, I began to unload all of my acquired weaponry and ammunition. The total magazine count for the pistols came out to six, each carrying thirteen rounds, save for the one loaded into my first pistol. I'd take care of replacing the rounds after I'd rested. I could barely keep my eyes open. I slipped the used magazine back into my pistol and flipped the safety on, then shoved it into my pocket. The residents of Goodsprings I'd met so far were decent folk, but recent events made me just a bit wary of everyone and everything. I settled into one of the chairs to wait for Sunny to finish talking.
I wasn't sure how long I flickered in and out of consciousness. When I finally woke, for a brief, split second, I could believe that the mattress under my back was my own. I could trick myself into believing I was still back in Ohio. Chasing the robed figure across the country never happened, neither did findng myself in some twisted post-apocalyptic Earth. I could make myself believe that I hadn't murdered four men so easily.
The illusion was shattered when I heard a knock at the door.
"Rain, you up yet?" Sunny's voice was muffled by the wood between us, but it was definitely hers. A bark followed soon after and showed that Cheyenne was tagging along as well.
"Just woke up, give me a bit," I called back. It didn't take long for me to get out of bed, and I found that I'd been left in my clothes. My pistol was resting on top of a nearby bookshelf, next to a repair kit and a battered globe. The entire shack was a bit of a mess, with ruined books and scrap metal filling its shelves and surfaces. There were also a few battered metal ammunition boxes, but since the shack didn't belong to me, I left them alone. I brushed off my T-shirt and jeans as best I could, trying to make myself somewhat presentable. A quick, rough finger-combing of my hair would have to do for that aspect, and I'd have to ask around for a razor to try and get the excess stubble off of my face. When I finally opened the door after slipping the Hi-Power into my pocket, I found Sunny impatiently waiting with Cheyenne, and... a robot? I just blinked at the boxy machine, balanced on a single tire and sporting a monitor on its front that displayed the stylized image of a cowboy's head.
"You just sort of passed out in the saloon. I was fine to just let you stay there, but Trudy decided to lock up early on account of recent events. Victor here was kind enough to let you sleep in his shack," Sunny explained.
"Aww, it was nothing. Just helping a stranger in need," The robot chuckled, his synthesized voice fitting the 'cowboy' aesthetic. "Shame I couldn't get to that Courier in time, though..."
"I take it something happened after I conked out?" I asked, feeling another tickle in the back of my mind at the mention of a 'Courier'.
"Those Great Khans who passed through yesterday with some guy in a checkered suit and a fancy gun decided to off a Courier from the Mojave Express. It was a headshot at point blank range, no way for her to have survived," Sunny let out a depressed sigh. Cheyenne whined in sympathy, and Victor just shifted on his tire in what seemed like nervousness. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I had to suppress the rage I was feeling at that injustice, or it'd all burst out on someone who didn't deserve it. My gaze swept over the town, looking for some distraction to break the awkward silence following my calming exercise. My eyes found an African-American man in one of the NCRCF uniforms and ballistic vests, with a pair of guys following behind in the more standard uniforms. All three were packing firearms. The two in normal uniforms had bolt-action rifles like the one I'd looted, and the leader had a revolver much like Pete's, only in worse condition.
"You didn't leave the vest I looted at the Saloon, right?" I asked Sunny, checking over my pistol to make sure it hadn't been tampered with during my move from the Saloon the night before. Sunny followed my gaze, then cursed loudly. That was all the answer I needed to hear. I slid the magazine back into my Hi-Power and pulled its trigger once to send the slide forward.
"They're going to make the connection between Goodsprings and the dead Powder Gangers," I said, leading the way to the Prospector Saloon at a quick pace.
"Joe Cobb's already got enough reason to try and take over the town since Ringo showed up," Sunny replied, unslinging her rifle and checking its magazine as well. "As much as I'm not for killing folks, Cobb needs to be stopped before he can do any real damage."
Pete, still in the same chair I'd last seen him in, gave a grim smile and a nod as we passed him to enter the Saloon. The Powder Gangers all had their weapons out, and were threatening the bartender, a middle-aged woman who looked distinctly unamused.
"If you don't give Ringo up, I'm gonna get my boys and burn this town to the ground," Joe Cobb threatened, gesturing with his revolver. Oh, good, they hadn't found the vest yet, or at least hadn't noticed it. The other Powder Gangers didn't seem to notice my entrance, so I quickly looked back at Sunny and put a finger to my lips, then slipped over to the table where my gear had been left, untouched as promised. I grabbed my trusty rusty kitchen knife, two of the spare magazines for my Hi-Power, and formed a quick plan of attack. Sunny just looked at me and quirked an eyebrow, to which I responded with a feral grin and signaled the second rifleman, then mimed a choke-hold. Sunny nodded, and I counted down from three on my fingers. Once only a closed fist remained, Ms. Smiles and I sprang into action. Sunny knocked the rifle out of her target's hands with a smack from the butt of her own, then took the man in a headlock and aimed the rifle over his shoulder.
I moved in behind my target, slipped my knife arm under his armpit and placed the blade on the man's neck, and lined up a shot at Cobb. As an afterthought, I growled to my prisoner,
"Drop it!"
One more rifle clattered to the floor, and the Powder Ganger raised his hands in surrender.
"Just who the fuck are you supposed to be?" Cobb asked, taking a step back.
"Who I am isn't important here," I replied, my voice coming out as a ferocious growl, "Who you are is."
"Boss, I think this is the one who killed our guys at the sky diving joint!" Sunny's victim wheezed. Cobb's mouth opened, shut, then he turned and ran out a back exit that I didn't even know about. My parting shot missed him by less than an inch, leaving a hole in the wall.
"Damn, that's what I was trying to avoid," I grumbled, looking to Sunny, "Let's take these bastards outside."
We dragged our prisoners out of the Saloon, ignoring their pleading and begging.
"So, how are we doing this?" Sunny asked, "Can't let them go, or they'll just run back to Cobb."
"I'm not much for executing prisoners either," I admitted, then called to Pete, "Do you mind finding some duct tape or rope?"
"Not at all, kid," Pete chuckled, and vanished into the small store next to the saloon.
"May as well knock them out for now," I added to Sunny, then pistol-whipped the back of my captive's head. He dropped without problem, and Sunny soon had her own prisoner in dreamland. We both then began the process of patting down the men, coming away with more caps, dynamite, and ammunition for the type of rifle Sunny used. Once that was taken care of, I walked over to a chair on the Saloon's front porch and nearly collapsed into it. Two days and I'd been in more high-stress situations than in the last two years. If I ever caught up to that robed guy, I'd probably put every last bullet I had into him. Then again, it was my own fault for tracking him across the country on a whim.
"You alright?" Sunny asked, taking a seat next to me.
"To be honest, I've been better," I sighed, relaxing as much as I could in the chair, "If things keep going as they have, I'm going to crack."
"Just hang in there Rain. Most days, all we have to deal with is the occasional Gecko wandering near town," Sunny smiled and stood up as the sound of footsteps came from inside the saloon. The bartender soon stepped out, awkwardly balancing all of the gear I'd left, and the rifles we'd disarmed from our prisoners.
"Hope you know what you're getting into, kid," She said, setting the assorted guns and ammunition at my feet, then stepping back.
"Hey, Trudy, think you could help round up some of the settlers? We could use the help," Sunny picked up one of the rifles and began checking it over.
"Sorry, but I'm planning on sitting this one out," The bartender, now identified as Trudy, replied, "I'll be cheering you on, though."
"If you don't want to fight, I'll respect your choice," I told her, picking up one of the rifles for inspection as well. There was plenty of work to do, and not much time to do it in.
I knocked on the door to the Goodsprings gas station, located on the very western edge of town, and waited. Sunny was taking care of persuading Chet, the general store owner, to supply the townsfolk with some basic leather armor. I, on the other hand, was supposed to be persuading Ringo and Doc Mitchell to aid in the town's defense. From what little information I'd obtained, Ringo's caravan had been taken out by the Powder Gangers. If nothing else, I could appeal to a desire for revenge.
Time passed, and I heard no movement inside the gas station. At last, I tried the door handle. It swung open easily, and I found myself staring down the barrel of another 9mm Hi-Power.
"That's close enough," Ringo said, his grip on the pistol shaking a bit, "Who are you, and what do you want with me?"
The man was rather scrawny, clad in a plaid shirt and blue overalls that had seen a fair bit of road from the amount of dust on them.
"Name's Rain. Managed to piss off the Powder Gangers, and the town's going to settle the question of Joe Cobb once and for all," I replied easily, forcing my hand away from my pistol. Ringo ran a hand through his short brown hair and sighed, holstering his weapon after a tense moment.
"How many of the other townsfolk are in on it?" Ringo asked, leaning against the wall.
"Sunny Smiles at the least. She's off trying to get Pete to loan us some dynamite, and Chet to part with a few sets of armor. If you're in, then all that's left is to get some medical supplies from Doc Mitchell," I answered.
"Rain!" Sunny called from outside of the gas station. I gave Ringo one parting look and stepped out of the door. Sunny was panting, as though she'd ran all the way across the town at full tilt. Cheyenne was panting at her heels.
"They're here?" I preempted Sunny. A nod from her, which lead to a curse from me. Ringo stepped out behind me, still in the process of shoving extra magazines in his pockets. I looked out at the town, and noted that a few snipers had been set up on top of the store and saloon. More were hiding behind a large shipping crate, and in the alley between the store and saloon. I looked down for a moment, and found myself chuckling in spite of the danger.
"Are you sure he's not just insane?" Ringo asked, edging away from me.
"You have to be a little crazy to survive in the Wasteland," Sunny answered with a wild grin.
"Sorry. It's just high noon, and the setting is just too perfect," I explained myself. Gunshots soon rang out from the center of town, and were met by return fire from the road leading back to Jean Sky Diving. The time in between running from the gas station and joining the fight seemed to pass in a blink. Sunny and I were both crouched behind the rusted wreck of a pickup truck, taking every clear shot at the Powder Gangers we could get. There were only about eight of them total, which wouldn't have been a problem even if we had half their number. Someone had clearly forgotten to give most of the Powder Gangers any form of proper weaponry, meaning most were running around with pool cues or cleavers. The only real issue came when they started throwing dynamite. One stick was enough to scatter our main forces, and a few of those brave souls didn't get back up.
When another stick of dynamite blew and shattered the windows of the Prospector Saloon, Trudy stormed out, shotgun in hand, and began unleashing her own brand of hell. Ringo wasn't doing poorly for himself either, but he was a merchant, not a soldier. Then again, I wasn't much of a soldier either. Pete was holding his own with both dynamite and revolver, working the hammer like a pro. Cheyenne was barking and growling, barely holding back her instincts to go and rip out the throats of anything that would threaten her master.
As quickly as the fight began, it ended. Joe Cobb was the only Powder Ganger left, fumbling with a strange device. I lined up my sights and shot it out of his hands, then broke cover and began walking towards him. Cobb saw me coming and fumbled for his revolver, the fear of god and of me in his eyes. Apparently I'd left a bit of a lasting impression on the man. By the time I'd gotten within arm's reach, Cobb was just barely getting the hammer cocked, only to find that his gun was empty. He dropped it and tried a haymaker. With ease, I sidestepped, grabbed him by the wrist and head, turned, and slammed him into the dirt. Cobb just laid there after that, trying to get his breath back.
"Holy hell," A voice spoke up, just barely audible over the blowing desert wind. I looked up from Cobb and saw a man further down the road. He was dressed in what I could only guess was supposed to be a military uniform, colored a dusty brown to blend in with the desert. He wore a chestplate branded with a golden two-headed bear. His rifle was reminiscent of the classic AR15 assault rifle, and a holster at his side bore a Browning Hi-Power. He stepped up and looked down at Cobb, then back up to me.
"I'm Private McMahon from the New California Republic Army, 5th Battalion, 1st Company. We caught wind that some of the escaped convicts were going to attack the town, but it seems you've managed to take care of that yourselves," The soldier introduced himself. "If there are any more survivors, we'll take them back into NCR custody."
"Fuck that," Joe Cobb spat, "I'd rather die than go rot in a cell again."
"Oh Joe, you poor, poor bastard. Do you really think I'd just off you so quickly? No. You're going to live for a long, long time. Whether that time is spent as a cripple or not is entirely up to how much you cooperate," I had to suppress a shudder at the ice in my own voice. The ring had affected my mental balance as well as my physical, and the fact that I didn't know the full depth of the changes frightened me. Disgusted with myself, I turned away from the man and strode into the saloon. I'd never been one for alcohol before, but I was beginning to feel a mighty need for a stiff drink. I settled into a chair at the table that carried what remained of my looted supplies that hadn't gone to defending the town. Checking over it all was a calming exercise, a way to pacify the beast that had been rampaging in me since I'd arrived in the wasteland.
My self-loathing was only distracted by Cheyenne whining softly and resting her head on my leg.
"Why are you getting so attached, girl?" I asked, scratching her behind the ears, "You know by now I can't stick around."
"What makes you think that?" Sunny's voice cut in. I looked up and saw her walk into the saloon, followed by most of the townsfolk seeming eager for a victory drink.
"I've got someone that I need to find. Someone who I need to get some answers from," I replied, "Plus, as you've probably seen, I'm not exactly the best company to keep."
"Cheyenne disagrees, and that's good enough for me. Most folks she'll be downright hostile to until I say otherwise. Never had to do that with you," Sunny replied, taking a seat at the table. "So, who is it you're looking for?"
"Some tall, hunched guy in a hooded robe," I said, reloading the last magazine for my 9mm, "Followed him through some weird stone ring, and the next thing I knew I was waking up outside of a Powder Ganger camp."
"Yikes. Well, we definitely haven't had anyone like that through town. Primm would probably be the best place to check if you're dead-set on leaving. It's just a few hours walk south of here if you follow the road."
I nodded, committing the information to memory, and rose from my chair. Sunny stood as well, a small frown still on her face.
"When are you planning to leave?" She asked.
"Tomorrow, probably. I'm going to do some trading with Chet and talk to Doc, then probably crash at Victor's again for the night," I answered. My progress out the door was stopped by Ringo, who calmly placed a jingling bag in my hand. Confused, I opened it and found more of the bottle caps I'd looted off of the Powder Gangers. It rapidly clicked that they counted as money in the Wasteland. I'd have to count my caps when time allowed.
"I know it's not much, but because of you, I don't need to hide out anymore. Technically they're Crimson Caravan funds, but I think they'll understand once I explain things," He had a genuine grin on his face. I just shook my head and tried to return them, but he was having none of it. "Rain, I owe you a lot more than that. Whether you like to admit it or not, your presence made the settlers take action."
"Then if we ever meet again, you can pay me back. But for now, it'd ease my conscience if you kept the money, and put it to hiring some protection for your trip back home," I stated, pressing the bag of caps back into his grasp successfully.
"I'll hold you to that," Ringo said, "Just look me up with the Crimson Caravan in New Vegas if you're ever in the area."
As I walked through Goodsprings, the townsfolk greeted me with cheer. The aftermath of the battle had been cleaned up at record speed, save for a few loose splinters from the destroyed crates. I debated stopping at Chet's store, but decided against it, since I didn't want to lug all of my loot from the saloon just yet. With that in mind, I changed my course to the white house at the top of the hill, smirking at the picket fence out front. It was the type of house typically seen in a propaganda ad about the 'American Dream'. Someone clearing their throat behind me pulled my attention from the scenery, and I turned around to see Private McMahon standing there, eyeing me critically.
"Doubt you want to hear it from me, but you did a good job here today. The defense was well organized, and there were no critical injuries to any of the townsfolk," The Private said, "If you're ever looking for some solid work, the NCR could use someone with your talent."
"I'll keep that in mind," I replied with a fake smile. When I turned to enter Doc Mitchell's home, though, McMahon spoke one more time.
"There's actually something we could use your help on, if you're planning on heading south anyways."
That caught my attention. I turned back to the Private and gestured for him to continue.
"Officially, Primm is off limits right now. The town was taken over by convicts from the NCR Correctional Facility last night. Since Primm isn't technically in NCR's jurisdiction, we can't do anything about it."
"So you want me to clear them out for you?" I asked, trying not to think of all the possible ways that could go wrong. Everything was telling me to accept the mission, to help the town. The fact remained that I was pretty much bluffing my way through most combat situations thus far. It was amazing that I hadn't taken a bullet between the eyes yet.
"If you think you can manage it," McMahon confirmed. I took a long breath and prayed that whatever luck I had would last.
"Alright. I'll take the job. Are you headed back that way tonight?"
"I was just about to leave, actually," The Private admitted, "I tell you, this is some of the best news I've had in the last few days. When can we expect you?"
"Midday tomorrow at the latest."
Private McMahon gave one final nod, said his farewells, and departed. I took a few calming breaths, trying to calm the swirl of chaotic thoughts running through my head. What the hell had I just agreed to?! I'd just gone through a crisis sanity, and then I agreed to a job that would force me to unleash the monster in me again! The wasteland had changed me too much already, and not for the better. I'd already started killing, breaking one of my major moral tenets in the process. Where would it end? Just how far would I fall before I was just as bad as the men I killed?!
Once I'd gotten my emotions back under control, I finally got around to knocking on Doc Mitchell's door. It was soon opened by a bald old man with a friendly look about him. Upon seeing me, he gave a big smile and waved me in.
"Come on in, son. I've been meaning to talk to you since you got into town," He said, leading the way to his living room. Like most buildings I'd been in, the house was in rather poor condition. The only exceptions to this rule seemed to be his white couch and red armchair. I took a seat on the couch and nearly melted into the soft cushion. The chairs at the Prospector Saloon weren't meant for comfort, and the bed in Victor's shack wasn't all that great either. But that couch... that couch was a single work of expertly crafted comfort after the end of the world as I knew it. Doc just grinned and chuckled at my reaction to the couch and disappeared down a second hallway connected to the living room. When he returned, Doc had a pair of bottles in hand. He passed me one and took a seat in the armchair. I noticed immediately that the bottle cap looked the same as some of the ones I'd looted off the Powder Gangers. It figured they had to come from somewhere, but I never expected them to be on a drink still in production.
"I get these from the vending machine out by the gas station," Doc explained, "Someone keeps refilling the machine when nobody's watching."
I remembered seeing the 'Sunset Sarsaparilla' machine when I was first going to see Ringo, but I figured it had already been looted.
"Right, so, what did you want to see me about?" I asked, popping the cap off the drink and setting it on a conveniently placed side table. On my first taste I could safely say that Sunset Sarsaparilla did not match up to any modern soft drinks in terms of flavor. It was likely the best I would get, unless if someone decided to shove a Mountain Dew vending machine through the Ring.
"Ah, straight to business. I can respect that," Doc gave a small nod and took a swig of his drink. "Long story short, I wanted to see how you've been holding up. From what I've heard, you've been through a lot since you got here. That can put a strain on the mind. Now, mind you, I'm not a psychologist, but I've picked a few things up in all my years of doctorin'."
There it was, my chance to cut loose and vent all I'd been feeling to someone else. Before I did, there were things I had to be sure of.
"Nothing I say will leave this room?" I asked.
"If you're not a danger to yourself or other law-abiding folk, it won't leave my lips," Mitchell promised.
"Well, Doc, I'm seriously out of my depth. A month ago, if someone told me I'd be in a post-apocalyptic wasteland one day, I'd call the men in the white coats to put them in an insane asylum. A week ago, it was 2014 AD for me, America was still alive and kicking, and the only wars being fought were overseas. The most I expected to be doing with my life was sitting in front of a computer all day typing code for some company or other," I rubbed my eyes and took a deep breath for the next part. "Then some weird guy in a robe shows up outside of my home, and lures me across the country to some weird stone ring out in the desert. That's where things start to go a bit nuts. He just walked through the ring, vanished, and being the massive idiot I am, I followed him. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in the middle of the night outside of a Powder Ganger camp with nothing but the clothes on my back, with my deformed heart and lungs somehow cured and years of physical neglect to my body negated. Possibly the most annoying part about all of this is that going through that ring did a number on my mind too. I was never this prone to violence before, and I never see that I'm even breaking my own character until after the fact."
"That's... quite the story," Mitchell admitted, taking another sip of his drink. "Not the strangest I've heard, but it definitely ranks up there. Don't take that the wrong way, though. You sound genuine enough for me."
Doc had provided the perfect bait for my curiosity. I found myself unable to resist asking about the strangest he'd heard.
"So, if a magical time-travel ring isn't the strangest thing you've heard about, what is?"
Doc Mitchell burst into laughter and gave me a giant grin as he told the tale.
"A year or two ago, back when I was working as a travelling doctor fresh out of Vault 21, my wife and I came on a man lying in the middle of the way, covered in deep cuts. He was hanging on to life by a thread, but we managed to get him stable. Once he'd recovered enough to talk, I got the story from him. Apparently he'd been out on a bender with some friends of his, they took some chems and ended up on a bad trip. When he woke up, he was in bed with a dead bighorner and a very satisfied Mother Deathclaw. Apparently she didn't like it all that much when he tried to sneak out the window."
At the word 'deathclaw' my mind flashed with the image of a demonic creature with long horns, razor-sharp claws, and teeth made for crushing bone. Doc wasn't quite finished though.
"Not long ago I got a message from him through the Mojave Express. Apparently he'd found the same deathclaw, and they're now 'married' and living together somewhere out east by Colorado. Got the picture somewhere around here."
I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn't quite find any words to say to that. I closed my mouth and tried again.
"Well, that's going to make for one hell of a family reunion."
Doc and I shared a round of laughter after that, and for a brief moment, my life didn't seem that bad by comparison. When the laughter faded, we were left in a comfortable silence. My list of people to visit if I ever returned to Goodsprings had grown by one, just after Sunny Smiles and Easy Pete.
"So..." I said as a means of restarting the conversation, "I took a small job for the NCR. Nothing classified, but under the table since it's out of their area of influence."
"Hope you know what you're getting into, son," Doc said, frowning for a brief moment.
"I hope I do too. I'm not confident about it, but there are good folks who need my help, and I'll be damned if I don't do something about it."
"And that's a quality that seems to be diminishing in this day and age," Doc chuckled, "Too many folks are just so focused on their own survival, they don't have time for anyone else. Goodsprings is thankfully different in that regard. Good folk, helpful folk, but you've seen what happens when something gets them riled up. Hold on a sec, I want to give you something."
He quickly vanished into a back room, leaving me somewhat confused. I took another sip of my Sunset Sarsaparilla and internally grumbled at the odd taste again. When Doc returned, he was carrying what looked to be a wrist-mounted computer of some kind, with a durable outer shell colored a plain gray and a number of buttons, a dial, and some sort of scrolling wheel.
"This is my old Pip-Boy 3000. Never seemed to have much use for it once I left the Vault. It's got all sorts of features you might find handy," He passed it into my hands, and I just stared down at the device for a moment, trying to comprehend why he would just give me such an obviously expensive gift.
"Doc, I can't accept this... it's -" I was cut off by a downright fatherly smile from the old man.
"Rain, you've done right by this town. Giving you a Pip-Boy that's just been collecting dust is the least anyone can do to repay you for helping out," He explained. Seeing there was no point in arguing, I fitted the opened armband over my left forearm and closed it. The device let out a little beep and powered on, showing a screen with a cartoony man in a jumpsuit smiling and giving a thumbs up. My only problem with it was that the interface was amber colored, which didn't make for the easiest read. The next few minutes after that were spent getting a rundown on how to use the Pip-Boy, including changing the interface color. The vitals tracking used an odd system called 'S.P.E.C.I.A.L.' to describe the users basic capabilities, which was shared with a machine in Doc's medical room called the 'Vit-o-Matic Vigor Tester'. It honestly felt like something you'd find in an Role Playing game, similar to the six attributes in Dungeons and Dragons. According to Doc, I had slightly above average scores all around, save for my strength, which ranked only a 4 on the 1-10 scale. I wasn't particularly surprised at that. I'd been living with the equivalent of a strength score of 1 for years.
When I finally left Doc Mitchell's, I was in a good mood and had a basic medical kit to cover most common injuries. He tried to sell me some Stimpaks, which accelerated a user's healing rate exponentially, but I was a bit wary of having to inject myself with needles. It was late afternoon when I returned to the Prospector Saloon, only to find that Sunny had left to take care of a small problem with some Geckos in the wilderness outside of town. She had Cheyenne with her, so I figured Sunny wouldn't need my help. Trudy gave me a smile as I took a seat at her bar for the first time, then frowned as a burst of static came from the radio sitting on the shelf behind her.
"I swear, it's been on the fritz since that Great Khan knocked it over," She muttered, setting it on the bar in front of her. The radio unit was self-contained, made by a company called 'Radiation King' if the label on the front was to be believed.
"Probably knocked something loose," I replied, "If you've got a screwdriver handy, I should be able fix it for you, or at least figure out what's wrong with it."
"You're asking a bartender if she's got a screwdriver," Trudy grinned at me, and I rolled my eyes at the obvious joke I'd missed. In a minute or so, I had the casing open, and noticed what looked like three AA batteries fitted together with some sort of connecting sleeve. I grounded myself on the metal casing to make sure I didn't fry the components of the radio with static, then removed the batteries, which I figured were the power source. From there, it was a quick and easy round of checking and tightening connections. A few minutes later, I had the case closed back up and flipped the right dial to the 'on' position. I felt a moment of triumph as the light in the radio's front came on and a man's voice began speaking.
"Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. This is Mr. New Vegas. Thank you very very much for listening. Whoops, better put on my newsman fedora here. Goodsprings has fended off a mob of escaped convicts after organizing an impromptu militia. This according to an old man, armed to the teeth with dynamite. You know, I think all news, whether it's good or bad, brings us all closer together. Don't you? We've got another classic coming up for you, it's Marty Robins with 'Big Iron'."
"Man, I must have missed the reporter while I was up at Doc's," I chuckled, "Anyways, it should be good to go. You might want to consider recharging the batteries when you have the time, but other than that, no more falls and it'll survive for a good few years."
"Thanks for looking at it for me. I don't know the usual rate for a repairman, but I figure fifty caps ought to cover it," Trudy set a small bag with the caps in front of me. I was quickly learning that people got rather generous when you help them with their problems, so I didn't make a fuss about the caps that time. Since I hadn't eaten yet, I decided to see what Trudy had in the way of food, and was soon enjoying my first Gecko Steak. The trace amounts of radiation actually made it taste better.
Once I'd finished my meal, I left a small tip for Trudy and went over to the recreational side. Someone had been over there, but from what I could tell, they hadn't taken anything. Quite the opposite in fact. All of the loaned guns and spare ammunition had been returned, and I even saw a new addition in the form of the revolver Joe Cobb was carrying. I felt a pang of sorrow at the condiiton the old Single Action Army was in. Revolvers were good, sturdy weapons, and would never jam on you like an automatic, but they required love and care. Cobb had given his piece neither, and it showed in the wear and tear visible on the metal. Before I'd even consider taking any of this to Chet, I needed to make sure everything was in the best condition I could get it. Learning to disassemble and reassemble these common gun types would be useful for the future, too.
Afternoon had long since passed into evening when I stepped into the Goodsprings General Store. Chet was behind the main counter, looking rather bored. At my entry, however, he perked up and gave me a smile.
"So, you're the guy I've been hearing about. Sunny told me you'd be dropping by," He said, "I'm Chet, and this is my store. I've got a bit of everything lying around somewhere, so let me know if you see anything that catches your interest. If you're looking to sell off some stuff, just bring it up and I'll take a look."
Without further ado, I carried my makeshift bundle of weapons and set them on the counter. Chet raised an eyebrow, but nonetheless began making his own inspection.
"I spent the last few hours cleaning up each and every one of those, it's why I'm so late."
Chet nodded in understanding, fiddling with the bolt on one of the rifles. He tested the magazine release and let out a small whistle.
"You got these from the Powder Gangers, right?" He asked, setting that rifle aside and looking picking up the second of the four rifles I was selling. I'd decided to keep one just in case I needed a weapon with a longer reach.
"Every last piece," I confirmed.
"Well, I have to say, you did a damn fine round of work on these Varmint Rifles. Just the fact that they're cleaned up gives a higher price. I'll give you fifty caps for each rifle and a spare magazine. You can keep the actual ammunition if you like."
I nodded and Chet set the rifles aside, picking up the shotgun next. He looked it over, then whistled appreciatively.
"Good job on this one. I can give you seventy caps for it," I agreed and he set it aside with the rifles. The rest of the transaction went by smoothly. I didn't get too many caps for the spare knife or other improvised melee weapons. The most caps came from the collapsible baton and baseball bat at 45 and a whopping hundred, respectively. Apparently good baseball bats were a commodity of sorts, and the one I'd picked up was in better condition than most Chet saw run through his store. In the end, I received a grand total of 558 caps from Chet, which was far, far too many to just carry around. Heck, even the hundred or so I had was already too much.
"I really hope you don't have anything else to sell, that's pretty much all of the caps I had on me," Chet scratched his head, looking apologetic.
"Well, if you want a chance to get a fair bit of it back, I do need some gear for an infiltration mission. I need suppressors for my rifle and pistol, if you have any in stock. A scope would be nice as well."
The salesman grinned and disappeared into his back room in a flash, then came back out carrying two black metal cases with 'Gun Runners Special parts' written on the top in white paint.
"I've been trying to get Sunny to buy these for a year or so now, but she insists that her rifle's fine how it is. If you're looking for a silencer for the 9mm, I don't have any in stock, but I do have a silenced .22 pistols. If you take the same care in cleaning it up that you did with the rifles, it won't let you down. I'll even throw in two extra magazines fully loaded."
"I'd like to see what I'm buying first, of course," I said. Chet pushed the cases in my direction, and began hunting around his store for the .22 pistol. I flipped the latches on the first case and opened it, then shifted aside the instruction manual for installing the modification. Where everything else in the wasteland seemed in poor condition, the scope looked like it had just come from the factory, its black metal not showing the slightest wear or tear. The suppressor was next, and I was just as impressed. The 'Varmint Rifle' thankfully came with a threaded barrel already installed, with a nearly unnoticeable cap at the end to protect the threading.
"I'm definitely buying these," I told Chet, who was in the middle of rifling through a metal cabinet.
"Two hundred caps for both," The merchant replied, then let out a small cry of victory and came back to the counter. When he set the pistol on the table, a very strange sound escaped me. It was not a manly sound, but one of pure delight. If I were to describe the sound I made, it would be something akin to 'Squee!' The pistol I was looking at was a Ruger Mk III with an integrated silencer. It needed cleaning up, like Chet said, but a quick examination showed that everything was in working order.
"Sixty caps for the lot," Chet cut into my admiration. As I began counting out the caps, he loaded up the magazines for me. It was then that I ran into a small problem with my logic. I still had no real means of carrying all of the ammunition and weapons I was acquiring. The NCRCF Ballistics vest was without any sort of pockets and a bit bulky. My medical bag was too small to carry much more than what was already in it. I looked around the store for something that would suit my needs. After a few minutes, I found something that seemed to fit the bill. It was a suit made of black leather, consisting of a jacket and set of really caught me about it was the number of pouches on the belt to hold additional magazines.
"Hey Chet," I commented, "How much would you take off the price of that leather armor if I traded in my vest?"
The salesman considered for a moment, then shrugged.
"The vest and seventy caps should cover it. The armor's never been touched, since everyone seems to prefer the extra shoulder guards and so on."
I went over to the armor and pulled it on over my T-shirt and jeans, then did a few basic stretches to make sure my mobility wasn't too hampered by the leather. Satisfied with my purchase, I made another sweep of the store's products, and was soon the owner of a trio of holsters for my handguns, a set of binoculars, a makeshift sheath for my knife, and an over-the-shoulder style backpack. My grand total for all of my expenses came out to 370 caps, leaving me with 306. With business concluded, I said my farewells to Chet and headed for Victor's shack. The robot himself was in some sort of standby mode outside, and made no move to stop me when I entered his shack.
The remainder of the time before nightfall was spent getting my weapons in peak shape for the upcoming mission. I installed the mod kits on my rifle, and cleaned up the Mk III to the best of my ability. Once that was taken care of, I took another look around on my Pip-Boy, checking the 'Data' tab to see if any files had been left that I needed to clear out. I found the Radio section, and the second I selected it, a number of stations popped into the auto-detection list. Some were named, such as 'Black Mountain Radio', 'Radio New Vegas', and 'Mojave Music Radio'. I also noticed a few more odd selections on the list, such as the 'Happy Trails Expedition Broadcast', and 'Sierra Madre Broadcast'. Even more just had a jumbled, glitchy mess of characters in place of a name. I steered clear of those for fear of somehow crashing the Pip-Boy's Operating System. After a moment, I began to feel restless.
Within moments, I had the belt from my leather armor buckled back on with my Hi-Power and knife in case something came up. Suitably armed, I left the shack once again and took in a deep breath of cool night air. My gaze swept upward to the full moon, and I felt a small pang of longing in my heart, a feeling I could never explain when I looked up at the great celestial body. With my hands in my pockets, I made a lap of the town. When I passed Trudy's Saloon for the second time, I paused and looked up the small dirt path north. Up the hill that way, I could make out a small water tower and a makeshift wooden fence.
My curiosity guided me, and I soon walked up the dusty trail. My breath caught as I came upon the Goodsprings Cemetery, and I barely noticed the small 'Ka-Ching!' from my Pip-Boy when I approached it. A newer, fresher grave was in the north-eastern corner of the graveyard, with a wooden cross of scrap wood serving as its marker. I began to hear whispers on the wind as I walked further into the cemetery, the mutterings of restless spirits. I'd been able to hear them when I was younger, but the ability had faded to a dull 'ghost detection' sense during my teenage years. The return of that somewhat useless ability was another thing I could blame on the Ring.
With every step towards the newest grave, the whispers increased and a pressure built in the air. By the time I reached the mound of dirt, it felt like my body was being crushed in a trash compactor. It was hard to breathe, to think, to move. My vision kept flickering in and out, showing me the grave one moment, and an empty pit the next. The flashes increased in speed and intensity until it felt like I was being punched in the gut with each one. Then, as quickly as the activity came, it stopped. I could still feel the spirits in the cemetery, but they were calm, watching me, waiting for something. I heard the faint swish of leather on leather, and whirled to face the intruder, pistol and knife raised and ready.
There was nobody there. Releasing a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, I slid my knife into its sheath on the back of my belt and returned my Hi-Power to its holster at my right hip. Thoroughly creeped out, I gave one last look over my shoulder at the nameless Courier's resting place. The words sprang to my lips unbidden, but that didn't mean I wouldn't honor them.
"I'll come back and visit you the next time I'm in town. Just rest easy, Courier."
Ending Notes: This is, perhaps, the longest chapter I've ever written for any story. Still, I felt it was best to get the Goodsprings mini-storyline done in one straight shot. Now, I also have to explain a lot of things to keep people from raging at me.
The Ring that Rain traveled through actually exists in Fallout canon. If an equivalent exists on Earth, it hasn't been found yet. For the sake of this story, it does, and instead of just traveling through time as the Robed Figure suggested, it shifted our protagonist across the Multiverse into the Fallout section of things. The Ring has also been known to change the physical location of those who pass through it, explaining why Rain woke up outside of Powder Ganger Camp West. However, Rain's mere presence shifted the rules of probability, and poor Courier Six suffered the price for it.
So, with Courier Six dead, what does that mean for the overall storyline? Well, two of the DLC's are going to be changed in a major way. Lonesome Road is the obvious one, since Ulysses bears no grudge toward Rain. The other DLC that's getting changed is going to be a secret, unless if someone posts a review with the correct answer and why.
I'll go into details on why Rain seems to have an unfair advantage next time, but for now I'll leave you with his level 1 build for your viewing pleasure.
S.P.E.C.I.A.L.: (Strength: 4.)(Perception: 6.)(Endurance: 5.)(Charisma: 5.)(Intelligence: 7.)(Agility: 7.)(Luck: 6.)
Tag Skills: Guns, Sneak, Speech. Speech might seem like an odd choice, but in my personal playthrough, i lean towards guns rather than melee, and it doesn't take too much skill to use Rain's tactics with his knife.
Traits: Good Natured, Skilled(2x). Living in modern America, Rain hasn't had much reason to train with any sort of guns or explosives. Most of what he can do is thanks to untapped natural skill, which was then amplified by the ring.(You can actually double the boost from Skilled by reselecting it as a trait when the option to rebuild your character shows up. You'll get the extra points, but the -10% xp from Skilled doesn't stack with itself.)
I am also looking for some minor OC's, such as NCR soldiers, Caravan Guards and the like. If you want to see a character included, feel free to leave a mini-bio in the reviews section, and I'll take a look at them and decide whether or not to include them.
I also did a very basic spell checking run through Fanfiction's internal editor. Hopefully I didn't miss anything major.
Until next time, everyone!