AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Hello, and welcome to the rather small prologue for this new story. Let me start by thanking my friend and beta reader "doesthiscountasusername", hoping I wrote that right, for having helped me from the very beginning of my writing adventures. Thank the Divines I've got someone to help me with this.
So, this is a bit of an experiment of mine - yet not because of the idea at its core, no. This is merely a complete overhaul and re-imagining of my previous and not-so-well-written fanfiction, "Dragons of the Mojave", which I abandoned for lack of ideas and will to write. I'd just grown tired of that one, seeing how there was no ending in sight and I hadn't planned ahead. I have taken the concept, locations and main characters' personalities, improved upon them, made plans, and started anew. Nothing experimental in that, more like recycling assets I was too fond of to let go.
No, no, this could be called an experiment (for me, anyway) because I have the intention of writing it entirely in first person. Good choice, bad choice? Don't know. Call it testing my skills in hopes of improving as an author, call it being insane, you're probably correct either way. Since I'm not sadistic, however, I have associated different symbols to the various characters to make it more... well, not immediate, but understandable. Or at least, I had intended to do so, yet this website does not support simple ASCII characters. I have therefore gone for cards, so keep those in mind. You'll see.
A teensy-weensy final word, and I promise I won't be bothering you anymore until the very last chapter: unless something catastrophic happens or I grow too lazy to write so much as half a page a day, I will upload a new chapter on the first day of every month. If you start seeing chapters every two weeks, that means the story is complete. Don't worry, it will take me a good while to get there.
Without further ado, enjoy the read. Here begins...
"UNDER A FORLORN SUN"
- JOKER -
The sun scorches everything beneath it, the air hot and arid as the devil's breath. There is no mercy to be found under the unforgiving rays, no shelter out here in the desert. Just an endless stretch of ruined asphalt and sand for miles in all directions. Only the rusted wrecks on either side of the Interstate break the deathly monotony of the landscape.
And my van rolling down the road, too.
Well, it's not exactly a van. It's an old APC of the long-gone Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. It's also about as far from the stock version as it could be. I had the original engine swapped for one that ran on energy cells, seeing how diesel hasn't been refined on this world for over two hundred years. Not as noisy, and definitely not as powerful, but it gets the job done. It was black, a long time ago, but now it's rusted to all hell. The sirens' electronics are completely fried, and you can barely see 'SWAT' written on the sides.
Still, long as the plating holds, I don't care. This armor has stopped more bullets, blades, claws and fangs than I care to count. The bulletproof windscreen still holds, as do the tires. Circumstances have brought me to add a few iron spikes on the fenders, doors and windows, along with a crude cage armor of lead piping that I was careful enough to line with barbed wire. I'm more than willing to sacrifice a bit of visibility to make sure no rocket smacks me in the face.
I've tried to keep the inside as clean as possible with the admittedly few means at my disposal. I changed the old seat covers for shiny brown brahmin leather some five years ago. The steering wheel is simple, black, as is the gearshift - and no, I won't install an eight ball or a chrome skull, that's just poor taste. The dashboard itself is easy to maintain, it's brushed steel after all, I only have to dust it. I've ripped out the useless equipment that came with the police package and made some space for small weapons and ammo near the driver's seat. We're talking things like siren controls, on-board terminal, and so on and so forth; stuff I wasn't going to need anyway, working or not. Of course, I kept the radio and the speaker system.
I glance up into the rear-view mirror, and I'm met by my own polished shades, held in place only by my nasal bone and framed by flaked flesh and faded red muscle all around.
Well, that's to be expected from the pointman of the last SWAT team to use this APC.
Yes, I'm that old. I don't know whether I should call myself lucky or not.
That same glance also tells me I should tidy up the back of the van at the next stop. A shotgun's fallen over my bedroll, dragging my spare old uniform with it, along with the half-chewed brahmin steak I was supposed to eat tonight.
Huh. Now that's strange. I can't really talk about the uniform or the shotgun, but I'm pretty sure the meat had been wrapped in a newspaper before leaving Vegas. Unless...
"Rattles!" I snarl over the grumbling engine and jolting suspensions. Couldn't have been anyone else.
Soon enough, I find a rattlesnake's head pointed in my direction, a pair of mismatched eyes staring at me from the passenger's seat. Despite the fact my dinner is ruined, I can't help but sketch a smirk. There she is, trying to pass off as innocent, coyote ears perked up and front paws neatly folded near the handbrake. Her forked tongue lazily lolls out as she pants.
"I ain't fallin' for that, girl." I scold her. Her ears droop with a whimper as I jab a thumb in the direction of the steak. "This old cop can still put two and two together."
Rattles must think I'm allowing her to finish it, because she starts wagging her tail like it's a pair of maracas. That's where her name comes from - 'Rattles'.
Listen, I'm not the creative type. You try and come up with a good name for a nightstalker.
"Rattles, you coulda waited for yer grub." I tell her, but she keeps on wagging her tail. Ah, when a rattlesnake-coyote hybrid that is by all accounts biologically impossible looks at you with those eyes, you can't be mad at her. I scratch the scaly hide behind her ears and sigh to myself. "Dammit, a'ight, you can have it. But if this happens again..."
In the way of a reply, Rattles shakes my hand off and barks as she trots over to the piece of meat, drags it back to her seat, and starts eating away at it like a dog. I'm not too sure how she does that, what with the snake head and teeth and all, but I've learned not to ask questions.
She's surprisingly quick to dispatch my food, and once that's dealt with, she stares out the armored windscreen and whines.
"Yeah, I know, last time I took a job this fishy, I ended up with two bullets in my head." I answer in full agreement. Goddamn Platinum Chip, and goddamn Benny. It had been a while ago, but you don't forget something like that so easily. I, of all people, sure as fuck could not forget so easily. Had to make sure he was repaid in full – and this time, he isn't gonna hunt me down again. Being buried in a big vase in your own casino with your own handgun jammed down your throat tends to take care of that. "I'm confident about this one. It's four bone pendants. They're harmless."
Rattles huffs out and turns to the dashboard. She mistrustfully eyes four small brown packages in the open glovebox, and growls.
"Oh, come on, how can necklaces smell funny to you?" I groan in retort. "Besides, we're talkin' ten thousand caps here. You've gotta be crazy not to accept that." I dismiss her by pushing the glovebox closed, which is harder than it seems when it's packed full of old tapes and OSDs. "You know what? Forget it. You're a nightstalker, Rattles. You don't understand business."
Rattles sits up and makes a halfhearted attempt at howling me out of this.
"Relax, girl, the deal can't go wrong." I snicker, and pat her on her rough, wide forehead. "I go into this Vault that I've never heard of, give this 'diversified team of professionals' their pendants, and we're on our way. That's it. Just followin' my instructions."
Rattles glowers at me for a couple of seconds, but other than that, she doesn't pursue the argument. She yawns, rests her head on her paws, and appears to be content to silently judge me for the rest of the trip.
I suppose I can live with that until we reach this Vault 24, at about... half past three, give or take.