Author's notes:
Starlll: Why is it that whenever I start a new story, I get this terrible feeling that these first few lines are VITAL to the reader? I mean, I understand the need to hook the reader into the story very quickly, but not why it's so important that I hook you guys in with the author's notes? Aw well, who knows?
Scypris: (Clears throat loudly)
Starlll: Oh, right, anyway, just a few things you should know before reading this: first off, this is actually the sequel to another story I'm PLANNING on writing. But I haven't written it yet. So I'll probably give make a few references to things that happened in the past. This is your only warning that if you don't understand something (like WHY Scypris did what he did in this chapter), then it'll all be explained in the prequel. WAIT! Don't you hit that back button! Please, keep reading! Okay, you're still reading. Thank you. Anyway, this story (it won't be THAT long, but it won't be a one-shot, either) is a tribute to the upcoming Fallout: New Vegas game. Enjoy!
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Prologue:
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Scypris felt himself flung into the air like a mini nuke from a Fat Man. The sheer force of the explosion managed to throw him nearly six feet into the air, even at the distance he was. Shrapnel from random objects and glass tore through his clothes and into his skin like bullets through a cloth.
Scypris landed on his arm, probably dislocating it. He also felt a crunching sound somewhere in his spine, but it didn't hurt. Yet. Scypris had landed on the stairs going down into the Museum of History, or, as it is known to residents of the Capital Wasteland, the Underworld, home of the ghouls.
Scypris felt himself let out a groan from the bowels of his stomach. Shit. He thought. Here comes the pain. What did he just do? He had murdered Ahzrukhal the bar owner from the Ninth Circle, Charon (Ahzrukhal's bodyguard, though it was less of murder and more of self defense), and three patrons of the bar. All of this was done with his 10mm pistol, his weapon of choice.
When everybody in the room was dead, and Scypris was sure nobody was about to burst in, he stole the key off of Ahzrukhal's dead body and cleaned out the safe of whatever caps were inside. Caps was all he could afford to take, as he couldn't let anything slow himself down. Scypris had about two minutes before HE broke through the bathroom door and the small barricade he made.
Scypris grabbed an empty cooler and shoved as much alcohol as he could into it. He shot down the hinges of a closet (people could be so stupid. They would go through all the trouble of making bullet-proof locks when you could take down the hinges just as easily). He nodded when he saw what was inside of it: Charon's armaments supplies.
Scypris didn't bother taking ammo or stimpacks. He probably only had one minute left before HE got out. He only took exactly what he needed now. It didn't matter if there was a million caps in there, he only had time for what he needed. Scypris swore to himself for wasting a minute of his precious two on three hundred caps. Scypris pulled out a box full of grenades and mines, and stacked them on top of the alcohol.
Scypris hefted both of the boxes out of the door to the Ninth Circle and into the main room of the Underworld. Some ghouls looked at him strangely for how rushed he was, but didn't bother asking why. He put down the boxes next to the statue of some god of death or whatever the hell it was and began running. Scypris ran out of the door into the main hall. He pulled a grenade out of his pocket.
Scypris pulled out the pin and, adrenaline rushing through his body like bullets through the barrel of a gun, threw it. He didn't even bother checking to see how far it went, he just started running again.
He could hear the ghouls screaming. His friends roaring in mortal terror as they tried to get out of the range of the grenade.
The grenade made it all the way from the main hall to the room with the boxes of alcohol and explosives, then exploded. It caused a chain reaction, igniting the other explosives and lighting the alcohol. By then, Scypris had made it out of the door to the outside. The force of the impact shoved him into the air and he landed on the steps.
Shit. He thought. Here comes the pain.
He couldn't move an inch. He managed to turn his one good eye (his other eye was another story for another time) to the underworld. The explosion had no doubt knocked out the supports of the building, as it was collapsing behind him. There was a chance that some had survived the explosion and the roof falling down around them, but the survivors would be pinned down by the massive amounts of rubble, and starve to death.
It was dawning on Scypris what he had just done. He had completely destroyed his only sanctuary on this world. The one place where his life wouldn't catch up to him. Gone.
Scypris felt blood pour out of him. He would give every cap he owned in the world for a stimpack. Hell, he would settle for a blood pack. Hell, Scypris would even settle for a cold beer.
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It was a miracle that he survived through the night. The Brotherhood of Steel had cleared out the trenches almost a week ago, so his only danger was one of them discovering him while on patrol. But, considering that he had just made a major building collapse, they would probably notice him. So, like I just said, it was a miracle that Scypris had lived long enough to see daylight.
But, unfortunately for humanity, Scypris did.
Maybe I should explain a few things. First off, Scypris is a raider. He had been turned nearly a year ago, shortly after he left Vault 101. He managed to adapt quickly, but at the cost of many human lives. He was about half a head shorter than most people, which many consider to not be intimidating. But his left eye more than made up for it. His right eye was normal (by standards of the Capital Wasteland), but his left eye was completely yellow. Not just the iris, but the whites and even the pupil was a murky yellow. Scypris often woke up in the middle of the night, clutching that eye in pain. But, once again, how it became that way is another story, for another time.
Second, Scypris was decided to be one of the most dangerous criminals on the East Coast, and that's saying something. Clad in combat armor (though he separated some of the plates so he could move easier), Scypris was a man to fear. He felt no sorrow for taking human lives, unless he personally knew the one he killed. In which he felt some remorse, but nothing that a plate of Brahmin steak and some whiskey couldn't solve.
Scypris woke up halfway through the day, clutching at his gut. He managed to craned his head to see what was wrong. Some of the glass and metal shrapnel was lodged into his skin, in between the plates he had separated so he could run easier. Scypris slowly slid his hand over to the area with the shards, and slowly pulled them out with his fingers. Scypris fumbled through his pockets, strength running through his arms again. He managed to find his 10mm pistol, and stimpack hidden in his hoister.
Scypris administered the stimpack to his stomach, the unknown medicine coursing through his body. He slowly rolled onto his stomach when the stimpack was empties, and crawled to the top of the stairs. There was still some glass in his legs, but he could pull that out later. For now, he had to get the hell out of there.
"I have to go home." Scypris said, talking just to keep his spirit up. Then he realized: what home? No, he couldn't go home. He never could go home. Hell, he didn't even want to anymore.
What would happen? There would just be another chase and more killing. Heck, Scypris knew that before the week was over, he would be in this same exact situation, laying nearly dead in a ditch, praying some miracle would happen. No more. He wouldn't go home.
But then where would he go? And I bet somebody would just track him down anyway.
Scypris knew what he had to do. He slowly curled his fingers around his reflective sunglasses. The sunglasses hid his yellow eye. It gave him away like a siren in public places. Scypris took off his sunglasses. He weakly threw them into the rubble that used to be the Underworld.
As far as the world knew, Scypris Colt was dead.
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Starlll: Just so you know, this isn't what I'm used to writing. Too little dialogue, too much narrative. Anyway, PLEASE review. Even if you don't have an actual account. Please review. Oh, and if you point out a spelling/grammatical error, please tell me so I can make fun of myself. That is all. STARLLL OUT! (Mini nuke explosion behind him)