You Gotta Shoot 'em in the Head
Character Key
Ted Strayer - A chem addict living in Rivet City
Alistair Tenpenny - The Master of Tenpenny's Tower
Dave - The leader of the Republic of Dave
Dukov - A drunken Russian living in the D.C. Ruins
Mister Crowley - A Ghoul with caps and a vendetta
Clover - The slave-companion of the Wanderer
The Wanderer - A cold gun for hire
(Summary: Just to get myself back into writing fanfiction, and writing in general that I've never really lost to the spark for but certainly lost a lot of time for, I'm going to write up a little short story involving my rendition of the Lone Wanderer, his slave-companion Clover and the quest of the title name. Now, whilst reading this you may notice some things that do not appear in-game. That would be for the fact that I'm trying to make this my own story set within an already established universe... and as many people tend to do, making my own take on things. Such as... who in the Capital Wasteland would have the capacity to actually repair a Chinese Stealth Suit since it is after all a one of a kind item? The Brotherhood of Steel... maybe, though not entirely likely without trying to take the armor from the Wanderer. And I'm certain we all know how that would end up.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Fallout Universe, nor any of the characters herein beyond my rendition of the Wanderer inasmuch as Bethesda has allowed me to create in the game and my writing abilities has allowed me to potray here in this work.
Warnings: This story has a very dark protagonist, who a: enjoys killing and light torture, b: owns a slave, c: is not above using either of these two assets of his to earn currency. Mentions and use of alcohol and drugs- referred to as Chems- are also contained herein. If any of these things offend you, by all means do not read. Now, for those that haven't been turned away, enjoy.)
Crowley sat across from the man and woman he'd called over to discuss his business proposition carefully observing them as he swirled his drink in its glass. The amber colored whiskey had the usual 'floaters'- sediment and other undesirables to his pre-War mind- within it, but he couldn't expect much. Hadn't really expected much since the bombs fell. But the two smoothskins that sat in front of him... well, they looked a hair more promising than his drink.
The woman, he'd heard her called by the name Clover, sat with her chair scooted close to her companion, casually draping one arm across his shoulders and tracing patterns on his black combat armor while whispering in his ear, giggling to herself at whatever it was that she'd said to him. Her own combat armor was of the more common variety found throughout the wastes; olive drab with no discerning insignias and hanging from her belt were two weapons that looked as if they'd seen much use despite their decent condition; the first was a sawed off shotgun and the other was a chinese officer's sword, moved aside to offer her a more comfortable sitting position as she stroked her companions arm. To Crowley, the woman appeared just bordering on the edge of sanity- or as if she were laced out on Jet. Dangerous, if not altogether competent.
But the man that sat next to her with ice cold blue eyes that seemed to be peering at him with as much intensity as a slavering Deathclaw was the one whom he figured to be the brains. And likely several times more dangerous. Beneath his combat armor was another suit of a like that Crowley had never seen before, one that was just a shade off of being black, though it covered his entire form so much so that he'd disregarded anything of the combat armor but the actual chest piece and shoulder pieces. Whatever it was, Crowley doubted that the switchblade pressing against his thigh from within his pocket would do much good against it. And with the man's armaments, Crowley had no ambition to test his theory. On his back was a black, silenced and scoped assault rifle with a stock that was folded down on it and peeking over his opposite shoulder was the hilt of a strange curved sword. Hanging on his hips from a black gun belt were a pair of 10mm pistols and ammunition clips and magazines were strapped to various parts of his body, along with a few grenades. The man was packing for a war.
In spite of all of that, what disturbed Crowley the most out of his entire armament was the expression that he had locked on the ghoul. Hands folded in front of his face as he leaned on the table with his elbows and kept his face completely passive of all of the woman's ministrations, Crowley knew that his expression was as sharp as any blade and that it was no mask he wore. This man was a cold and calculating bastard. Someone that Crowley couldn't discount as being a very useful ally to make. Or an extremely dangerous enemy to have.
"I'm waiting," a voice as cold as the expression he wore lazily reached over to Crowley. With a quick side glance over at Clover, the woman detached herself from him and sauntered over to the bar after retrieving a handful of caps from his side. Crowley watched the woman walk away for a moment before turning his attention back to the person that would either be a threat or an opportunity depending on how he played his cards.
"What are you a bigot, can't even stand letting a gho-"
"That's strike one," the man interrupted him calmly, and an anything but pleasant smile slowly worked its way across his features. There was something predatory in the look of the man as he leaned forward a little more and continued with a non-chalant air, "You called me over to discuss business. Now you're being insulting? That's not very good business smarts. Now either tell me what you're offering or this conversation becomes very nasty very quickly and I don't care what kind of money you're offering. Keep it civilized and we'll do just fine."
Crowley had to physically bite back his instant retort to the smoothskin, and only reminded himself of the wisdom of doing so as he looked over the man's weapons again. What a pompous ass!
"Right then," sneered Crowley after a moment. "There's a group of people I want dead." He paused at that, waiting for some sort of reaction. The man offered none, not a twitch of his muscles, not a smirk not even averting his gaze in the slightest. He just... waited. Damn do I know how to pick 'em... "They're real bigots, the lot of them. And they need to be pay for it! Each one of 'em, they need to be shot in the head!" Crowley quickly simmered himself down as he realized he was getting loud, and settled himself in his seat before anyone in Carol's Place decided to see what had gotten him riled up. "Is that a problem?"
"Depends on how much you're paying. Bullets aren't cheap."
Crowley nearly started his prepared speech to convince the man, but stopped short as he realized what he'd said. No questioning of what they'd done, no demanding answers but one. Payment. Crowley worked over the lump that had developed in his throat and nodded softly, "A hundred caps, each. Four of 'em."
The man nodded and sat back in his seat, holding out one hand. The blonde had returned and easily slipped his drink into his hand. It looked like a glass of scotch and Crowley looked down at his own whiskey for a second as the man rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. The ghoul slugged back a good portion of the drink, while the man only casually took a small draw.
"I'm going to need names and locations, and then and only then will I decide," he said with that ever calm voice of his, but Crowley detected a hint of amusement there. He wondered for a moment what it was that was so damn funny, until he noticed that one of Clover's hands were beneath the table as she casually sipped from the lip of her beer. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on.
"The first one... this one is a bit of a tall order, but his name's Allistair Tenpenny. You know where Tenpenny Tower is at?", at the man's casual nod he went on, "Well that's the first one. Word'll get around about him dying, but the others I'm going to need some proof... Like a ring, or maybe a key they have." The man's eyes flicked over to him with a flash of curiosity. Crowley fought back a curse, but the man didn't inquire any further on it, simply nodding. "The others are Jeff Strayer, no idea where he's at... but I'd try around Rivet City. Might have ducked into there at some point. Then there's... Dukov, he's got his own place right here in the D.C. Ruins. Probably whoring it up."
Clover's amused green eyes suddenly hardened as she snapped her gaze over to him, and if the man hadn't put his hand to her chest Crowley was sure he'd have been greeted with two barrels of buckshot. The man nodded for him to go on. Crowley rubbed the flaking skin of the back of his hand against his chin for a moment, making a mental note; No using the whore word around the rabid bitch.
"Strike two. One more strike and you're out."
The threat sounded like more than just taking their business elsewhere and letting him find someone else to do the work. It distinctly sounded to him like, "And you're shit out of luck". Crowley decided to just hurry up with the last one before the smoothskins took anymore offense to him.
"The last one goes by the name of Dave. Supposedly started up his own whack-job community up north. Sound like a deal to you?"
The man considered him for a long moment before finishing off his drink and setting it on the table, glass upside down.
"Sounds like fun. Just have my money ready when I get back. Finish up Clover."
The blonde gave him one last heated glare before slugging down the rest of the drink and hurrying to keep up with the man, "Never without you, lover."
Crowley watched the pair disappear out the doors and gently touched his hand to his face, the dried cracked skin rubbing against itself with the sound he remembered that leaves on the ground during Autumn made when he'd walk on them. He may not like the way the world had turned out, but he was doing better than some. He was getting the best kind of pay; payback, served at the end of a dumb grunt and stupid bitch's barrel! Cheap, smoothskin labor! There wasn't anything like it in the world. The ghoul chuckled to himself as he finished up his drink and called for another.
He padded lightly through the ruins of the Subway station, Clover right at his side with her hand on the grip of her sawed-off. He'd wandered through this place so many times it was second nature for him to manuever around the rubble and debris, even as he set his PIPboy3000 to mark down the targets' names and their locations.
"Hey boss, I hear something," whispered Clover at his side. The Wanderer grunted softly and turned his gaze away from the PIPboy and paused to listen carefully for whatever Clover had heard. As his hand reached up slowly for the hilt of his katana, he thought momentarily of the man that had once wielded the blade that was no more than a pile of goo flushed out into space. He was certain he wouldn't mind the blade being put to good and formidable work. It was in the midst of his musings that he could pick out the sounds as well. Very soft, gentle and rhythmatic thuds of boots on concrete. More than one set of boots at that and all of them trying their best to remain quiet. A smirk slowly wound its way up his cold features and he gestured for Clover to step into the shadows. Rather than obeying him immediately, she wrapped her arms around his neck and drove her lips against his so forcefully their teeth actually clacked against one another, but she moved too quickly for him to realize the thought of backhanding her for her insubordination. Easing himself into the shadows with a frown in her direction, he drew his katana slowly and waited as he positioned himself by the side of the door.
He watched as the barrel of a chinese assault rifle slowly moved through the archway, and soon was followed by hands, arms, and the body that was cradling the weapon draped in a brown duster. Two more figures followed behind the first, the next armed with a combat shotgun and the last a plasma rifle. The loud BOOM! of Clover's sawed-off deafened everyone in the small entryway for a moment, but the Wanderer didn't suffer from the momentary stunned effect that the two regulators still standing had. His sword came down on the energy weapon wielder and the folded steel easily cut through one of his arms. The man's screaming had his companion turning to bring his weapon to bare on the Wanderer, but with an inhuman quickness he spun around the loud shotgun's firing muzzle and rushed him with a flying knee that broke the man's nose and snapped his head back.
He slashed as he came down, neatly eviscerating the man and removing him as a threat, before reversing his grip on the katana and driving the tip backwards as he similarly back-stepped. He felt the resistance of the last regulator as his blade punctured the man's stomach and professionally twisted the blade before withdrawing it from the flesh of his quickly dying opponent. Clover finished off the first regulator with her own sword, driving the tip into his chest to hasten his departure from their world. She looked over to him with a wide smile as she licked her lips. He thought of her insubordination for a moment and decided that he'd punish her later for it.
"Let's keep moving," he said as set the flat, unsharpened edge of his blade between his bicep and forearm, stripping the blood from the blade in that manner. For a moment, he lamented that his stealth suit no longer functioned after a particularly nasty fight with a group of supermutants, but was still glad of the protection it offered; especially when he cleaned his blade off in such a dramatic manner of finality. He had targets to rid the Wasteland of and caps to make.